My Brief Softball Stardom

By Randy Haglund

Local Boy Stuns Sporting World in One Moment Playing Church League Softball

That’s what the headline should’ve read.

But if everyone has their fifteen minutes of fame, mine lasted only about two minutes at A. M. Cannon Park in the summer of 1972.

My friend, Rick, talked me into joining the Hillyard Baptist Church softball team. At sixteen, I was my athletic prime, and I liked playing baseball. But there was one small problem:  I wasn’t very good at it.

Two things kept me from excelling at the sport. First of all, I was a crummy hitter. I couldn’t hit a dumpster with a bat. The ball seemed to magically pass through my bat like Alice slipping into the looking glass. With a swing like Reggie Jackson, I had a batting average like Lou Costello.

The other problem is one I am still cursed with. Like my old laptop, I have a slow processor. That is no good in baseball, especially if you are an infielder where snap decisions are essential. I had quick reflexes, but my decision-making skills were phlegmatic at best.

Being a church league, it’s not like my friends were going to cut me. Besides, I determined to get better.

I didn’t.

So I always batted at the bottom of the lineup, and I usually found myself exiled to right field, struggling to stay focused. But sometimes they would foolishly let me play third base.

I loved third base. My favorite player was Brooks Robinson, the quintessential third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles. I pictured myself diving for line drives down the third base line, or snatching hard grounders and throwing the runner out at the far corner of the diamond.

On the day in question, I manned third base against the top team in the league. I don’t remember the name of the church, but it had to be Our Lady of Holy Heavy Hitters, or something like that. These knuckle-draggers humiliated everyone in the league, and we were their next victims.

They were already up by a few scores early and had runners at first and second with no outs. Their smallest guy came to the plate and Rick came over from short stop and whispered to me, “Look out for the bunt.”

I didn’t want the hitter to know I might be on to him, so I played a few steps behind third. When our pitcher made his delivery, the runners were off, and I started charging the plate. But I stopped dead in my tracks about two feet left of third base because I could see the batter raring back to swing away. He connected with great force, sending a piercing line drive straight in my direction, but high over my head.

One thing I shined at was the vertical leap, so I crouched and then sprang up as high as I could, stretching my left hand skyward. I felt the ball touch the tip of my glove and at the same moment something hit my left foot. It was the runner from second, diving into third. The impact sent me into a dizzying mid-air cartwheel, arms and legs outspread. Like Ezekiel’s wheel, I gyrated “a-waaay up in da middle of de air”. Then I hit the ground with a loud “Umphh!”

Dazed, I turned my head and surprisingly saw the ball still barely snow-coned in the web of my glove.

 One out.

Still sprawled on the ground, I saw the base-runner that had sent me for a loop at third. I reached over and, with ease, tagged him. 

Two outs.

I leapt to my feet. My mind raced.

Actually, “raced” is not the right word. If one could say that my cognitive speed is typically sloth-like, you might argue that my mind had reached turtle-esque proportions.

I looked toward second base and saw the other runner standing there with an expression not unlike Deputy Barney Fife’s when he realized he had locked himself in the jail cell. Again.

When the runner started making his retreat to first base I knew just what to do.

Well, there was that. Plus everyone was yelling, “Throw it to first! Throw it to first!”

A lob to the outstretched arm of my first baseman completed an easy triple-play.

Brooks Robinson, at your service.

My entire team ran straight toward me. For a moment, I thought they were going to carry me off the field. But it was only the second inning. They all smiled and slapped my back and congratulated me. I was happier than my kid brother with a bowl of ice cream.

After the game, I stood tall, even though the Holy Heavy Hitters had trounced us. Nobody filmed the monumental moment, so it wouldn’t be seen on Sportscenter, which didn’t even exist for another seven years. Even the local television stations ignored the historic event. No agents from the Dodger organization asked to speak with me after the game, either.

But we celebrated our loss at Cubbies Drive-In on east Francis with post-game burgers and shakes. We had a great time, and even though nobody talked about the big play, I felt like I had made a contribution to the team for once.

I played church softball just one summer. But two glorious minutes one Saturday afternoon are all I have to remember it by. I think I must still have thirteen minutes of fame coming to me.

Stand by.

***

Have you collected your fifteen minutes of fame? Tell us about it.