“Let’s hope the ump forgets his eyeglasses,” said Hermie on the way to the game.
Hermie made his way to the dugout, sat in the corner on the wooden bench, and threw his glove against the fence in front of him, letting it drop to the ground and stay there. He was depressed and it showed. Why couldn’t the coaches have put him on third base and moved the third baseman to right field instead of Jason, who usually sat on the bench, didn’t like the game, and was playing just because his father made him?
The game seemed strange from the home team dugout, as though this wasn’t even his team. He watched Little Albert nervously journey to the mound. The warm-up was horrible. The catcher had to get up and retrieve each pitch from many feet away at the chain-link backstop.
The umpire called “Play Ball.” Little Albert’s first pitch was outside, but the batter swung at it and hit it. The grounder went between first and second base, a runner now safely on first. The next two batters walked, loading the three bases.
Hermie ambled just outside the dugout and tugged on his father’s shirt. “They’re not swinging at anything,” he said, “and these are their best batters. Little Albert’s only thrown two strikes. I’ll bet the Raven coaches said not to swing at anything, just walk. You told me long ago, when you bat you either get to first base or you are out. There’s nothing in-between. Everyone’s getting to first base.”
He was ignored.
The fourth batter walked, scoring a free run. The fifth batter walked. Two runs had now scored. No outs.
“Put me in,” demanded Hermie to his father. “My hand is okay.”
The Pup coaches suddenly called time out and had a long conference. Hermie was sent to the mound, Jason was pulled, and Little Albert jaunted to right field, thrilled that his torture had ended.
Hermie was glad to be in the game, but was concerned about his slightly swollen pitching hand, it hurting some as he warmed up. There was still a slight prick when he stretched it and his grip was still off. Bases were loaded, no outs, and the score stood at 2-0. He banked on the psychological aspect of what had been ordered here and now, thinking that the batters had been told to swing at nothing, and he was right. The first two batters went down as quick strike-outs. His pitches were softer than usual, but most were being deposited into the strike zone. The Ravens simply were not swinging at anything.
The third batter caught on and hit a pop-up on the first pitch, which retired the side. Unfortunately, Hermie’s right hand was now throbbing and aching some.
The Ravens’ first venture on defense did not go well. “The pitcher’s a walk-aholic,” Hermie told teammate Juan Rodriguez in the dugout who was putting on a batting helmet and preparing to select a bat. “Let him walk you,” said Hermie. “It’s payback time.” In short order, the Pups had taken a 3-2 lead after one complete inning had been etched by the scorekeeper. The lighted scoreboard in the distance confirmed it. Hermie had been among the batters who walked and he scored the go-ahead run.
Now it was time for him to revisit the mound. He warmed up right-handed near the dugout, and repeated with the same arm during his warm-up pitches on the mound, but his hand was already smarting. While the ball was going around the horn, he switched his glove to his right hand, and caught the ball okay when it eventually came his way. It was time to play ball.
Pitching left handed, his first two catapults were balls. He was trying to place his fastball on the lower inside corner. His feet felt funny on the mound. The slope was a little different than he was accustomed to while pitching left-handed at home. However, he adjusted and the third pitch was a hard strike, as was the second and the third. One out.
He was enjoying the release of the ball, since with slight wrist action and with the release of the ball from his fingers he was on target, placing it left or right, up or down as it crossed the plate.
No one seemed to notice and no one commented about his left-handed pitching, which he thought nobody could miss since his release was no longer sidearm, but exaggerated overhand. The other players were concentrating on their own duties and the coaches were attentive to the game in general.
As usual, the chatter behind him heated up as each opposing batter neared the plate. “He can’t hit, he can’t hit, he can’t hit,” was the usual banter, or “Swing, batter” was yelled in unison just as the pitch crossed the plate.
“Outfield, move further back. Third baseman, move up,” were orders dished out by the Pup coaches. Attention was not critically on the pitcher himself, but on his results.
Out two consisted of the batter swinging at a fastball, strike three! The next batter watched a strike-out overtake him as he stood looking and not swinging, the side retiring lickety-split — a quick half-inning to conclude the top of the second.
During his trot to the dugout Herman slid the glove onto his left hand, where it fit more comfortably. It had been awkward snagging the catcher’s throwbacks right-handed. As the bottom of the line-up donned batting helmets, Mr. Brubaker wandered in Hermie’s direction.
“I see you finally got it,” he said. “I’ve preached and preached that overhand is better than sidearm. Looks like it finally sunk in. Maybe you should get stung more often. Those were some dynamic pitches. How’s the hand holding up?”
“Fine.”
The Pups scored two runs by inning’s end, making the score 5-2. Hermie returned to the mound and successfully resumed his southpaw barrage. The first two batters were easily struck out and the count was 3-2, a full count, on the third batter who was able to knock two fouls far down the third-base line, barely missing fair territory. This was the Ravens’ best hitter. Suddenly, the Pup coaches called time out. Mr. Brubaker trotted to the mound.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked Hermie.
“Huh?”
“You need to quit messing around and go back to your right hand. This is no time to be joking around.”
“I pitched the whole last inning left handed,” said Hermie, “and all of this one, so far. That’s where the overhand pitch came from.”
“You what?”
Hermie repeated himself.
“Just get this guy out and we’ll talk about this in the dugout.” Mr. Brubaker appeared shaken and angry as he returned to the vicinity of the on-deck circle.
The next pitch was a strike, swung at and missed.
Hermie bought some time on the father-son conference in the dugout, since he was first up to bat. In sequence, he let bad pitches count and walked again, but was stranded on first base, when three straight strike-outs among his teammates ensued, so he quickly returned to the dugout, grabbed his glove, and hurriedly went to the mound to warm up — this time left-handed.
Nobody else seemed to notice or care about his pitching. Inning after inning he retained the southpaw toss, venturing to throw knuckleballs in the final inning, much to the chagrin of the catcher who misgauged where they would terminate. The backstop squatter had to stand up and scramble for pitches he would normally catch and did not understand why his mitt was so far off target. The coaches, too, were wondering why the catcher was off his game.
The Pups won, 9-2. It was in the car, as his father was downing a soft drink, that the barrage of questions emerged.
“Son, what’s the deal with the left-handed throw?” asked his dad, stopping at a red light. Hermie was in the back seat with his sister, chomping on ice from his grape sno-cone. She was eating a chocolate candy bar and trying to find a place to wipe her sticky fingers.
Hermie responded. “I’ve been practicing it for a long time. I just thought I would never need it, but I did tonight, and it worked out okay.”
“You know, in some ways you throw better with your left arm than right arm, but in some ways you don’t. I don’t think you’ve got as much speed, but I did detect some movement with the ball that you don’t have right-handed. There’s something different about it. And that last inning….wow!”
“It was a knuckleball,” said Hermie, “mixed in
with a few fastballs.”
“When we get home, I have to do some research about this,” said his father who was squinting at an oncoming headlight.
That night, with the TV blaring in front of him, Mr. Brubaker sat in his recliner, lamp on, studying the league rulebook, searching for any reference about ambidexterity on the mound. Not one word existed, so he assumed that there would be no problem with his son pitching from either side. He was wrong.
The next day at work, he received a telephone call from the head coach of the Ravens, who had learned after the game that Hermie had pitched both right-handed and left-handed against his team. The coach threatened to pursue an official ruling in an attempt to nullify the win for the Pups and secure at least one win this season for his team. Mr. Brubaker explained that Hermie had injured his right hand, which was why it happened and this satisfied the Ravens’ coach, at least for now.
But a question remained. What about the next game, against the dreaded Polley Ponies, for the league championship and the chance to advance to the state playoffs?
Next day, team practice had begun in the early evening on a ratty improvised field with a short wire backstop fence behind the post office building near town and rough boards for bases, the Pups’ usual haunt. The boys were in two rows, spread apart, playing catch to get their blood flowing while the three coaches held a strategy conference. Mr. Brubaker explained to his comrades the call from the Ravens coach and told them about Hermie’s pitching both right and left handed. They hadn’t noticed during the game and wanted to see a demonstration, which was provided. Hermie threw a few right-handed pitches, then left-handed. The coaches were impressed.
Sidney Livingston was the manager/head coach for the Pups, Brubaker was second in command and helped Mr. Livingston. An elderly man, also a coach who had suffered from polio as a youth and used crutches to get around, specialized in the running game and usually took a position just outside of first base to tell runners during games to either stop there are continue on to second base. A woman, Stephanie Herrera, kept team statistics and babysat in the dugout. Sometimes after she scolded a player for pushing or scuffling she would end by retorting something under her breath to herself in her native Spanish, which few of the players understood. They knew she was upset. She made sure the guys knew their order at bat, and brought bubblegum, a jug of water, and small Dixie cups to each game.
“How should we proceed?” asked Brubaker.
“I don’t know,” said Livingston. “This is so strange. It has never come up before.”
“There’s nothing in the rulebook about this,” said Brubaker. “I read it cover to cover last night and then I stayed up all night thinking about it — what our options are.”
“And?”
“First, we could ask for a ruling by the league, but I know how they work. It could take weeks before the officers can all get together at the same time to decide. They would probably just leave it up to the head umpire for each game the rest of this season and have the league address the issue before the next season. Or, we could pretend there is no problem and let Hermie pitch however he wants, whenever he wants. Or, the coaches could decide for him, making changes based on the game, the inning, or the at-bat.” He paused a second. “Then again, we could save the left-handed pitch as a secret weapon and use only if necessary.”
There was a period of silence, broken by Livingston, who said, “Let’s talk to Herman.”
“Hermie!” shouted Brubaker, waving for him to come over.
The manager explained the options to Hermie and asked him what he thought about them.
“The only one I like is me deciding,” he said quickly. “My fastest fastball is with my right hand. My slower fastball, which is more accurate, is with my left hand. My right-hand curve sometimes works, but it does not with my left. It’s hard to control. I haven’t been able to figure out the release point. With the left hand I have a knuckleball that works pretty well. You saw the last inning. Not bad. I need to be able to mix all these up, depending on the batter. That’s my take.”
For a short moment the three adults looked at each other, perplexed, after which Livingston gazed into Hermie’s eyes.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.
“One more thing,” said Hermie. “I really need a glove that can go both ways.”
“There ain’t none,” said Livingston. “You could search from here to kingdom come and won’t find one. I’ve got some old gloves at home. Let me see if I can rig up something. It’ll give me a chance to get creative at my leather shop.”
At practice on Wednesday, the gift was delivered, a hard, wrinkled old glove that had a thumb slot added next to the little finger side and pocket webbing near the middle. It was larger than Hermie’s usual glove and took some getting used to, but it worked well. The day was spent with Hermie pitching to his teammates, utilizing both left- and right-handed pitches. The wasp sting that had occurred on his right hand was now history, the swelling completely gone.
Thursday’s training session saw the Pups excited, nervous, and concentrating on baseball basics out in the heat. At home, Hermie collected his treasure chest of baseballs and threw until way after dark, over 225 pitches in all, beyond his usual count.
Chapter 5 —
The Pups vs. The Ponies
Hermie spent Friday resting all day — no chores, no lawn mowing, no cooling off at the municipal pool, no baseball practice — just an eerie anticipation of tonight’s game. He finished reading Mickey Mantle, Yankee Slugger which was one of his selections for the library’s summer reading program. He found on TV an interesting historical perspective about the 1968 World Series. The pitcher for the winning Detroit Tigers, Mickey Lolich, was his newfound hero of the moment. But he spent more time watching the clock on the kitchen wall than he did reading or watching TV.
Soon it was time to go to the field, where he could experience the last half of the Toad-Wildcats game that would determine third place in the league. The Pups were eagerly poised to dump out helmets, bats, balls, and catcher’s equipment at its conclusion. The Wildcats won, 4-3.
Game time was near and warm-up at Kiwanis Field began. The lights went up as the sun set. Hermie’s teammates were notably stoked and worried, which prompted them to cover this up by bragging about what they were going to do to the Ponies. Hermie had noticed during their first outing in Polley that the Ponies seemed more organized than his team. There was nearly a military cadence to their moves during their warm-up period on the field, and there were “we are better than you” sneers directed at the Pups. This had not changed.
Usually when local teams collided there in Hall City, it was a good-natured battle — no grudges erupted, for these players shared a classroom in the fall and knew each other very well. Best friends played against best friends and after the game they rode bikes together, traded baseball cards, and tried to figure out girls. Not so with the Ponies. Nobody knew these kids locally except from snooty verbiage after the games as they pronounced themselves professionals against amateurs, or he-men against babies. The Ponies considered themselves better than any other team in the world and it showed in their actions both on and off the field.
The Ponies’ coaches had a similar attitude, perhaps a major influence on the psychology of the players. The coaches were notorious for lecturing umpires and complaining that the white powdery lines of lime painted onto the field with a cart were not perfect enough. They attempted to intimidate opposing coaches by openly referring to the opponent players as runts. “We’ll go easy on you,” he told Livingston. “I realize we have all the good players and you-all in Hall City have to divide up your teams. So it’s understandable.”
Livingston, eager to make him eat those words, decided to go along for now. “We lucked out beating the Ravens on Monday,” he said, giving a sad expression. “We’ve been dealing with injuries, you know. Maybe we’ll play a little better tonight. It’s just for fun anyway.”
Of course, deep
inside Livingston knew that this was an important game, since it would decide the winner of the league pennant. The game had prompted press coverage. A newspaper photographer had been snatching pre-game shots and interviewing some of the fans. Even the coaches were asked to make pre-game comments and predictions. The league’s two top teams were about to face off to a larger-than-usual crowd of exuberant spectators, most of whom wanted to see a bloody battle to the finish.
The Ponies’ uniforms consisted of a white tee-shirt and a black cap. On the back of the shirt, straight-on, appeared the player’s number and the back part of the mane of a black horse. On the front was a fierce live-looking horse’s face with a little portion of the mane on top, like tousled hair, as if the horse went all the way through the player’s chest. A sideways horse, something like a running mustang, was printed in white above the bill of the cap with the letter “P” emblazoned on it in white and outlined in red.
The Pups’ yellow shirts with the blue dog carrying a baseball bat in its mouth seemed cartoonish compared to the more serious Ponies’ attire, and the navy “P” on the yellow baseball cap carried just the bland letter with no specific design to it. The “look” of the two teams on the field cast the impression of upper classmen playing against children.
As the home team, the Pups had the first-base dugout and took to the field first, with Hermie at the mound pitching to the mitt of Danny Colby, a chubby red-headed youth who was decked out in pads and a catching helmet. The umpire, wearing blue, signaled the start of the game. Hermie had decided to try to pitch the first few innings right-handed, to maybe make it through the first nine batters and then switch to left-handed pitches for the second round to “throw them off a little and show them something new.” However, if for some reason they were hitting off him or he couldn’t pitch enough good strikes, he might change this strategy.
The first batter hit a rope into shallow left field on the initial pitch, good for a double, and the second batter nicked the ball on the fourth pitch, a slow infield roller that died to a stop between the pitcher and short stop, the batter arriving safely at first base, the runner on second base not advancing. Hermie was able to strike out the next three batters.
The Switch Pitcher Page 3