Glory Days

Just like the old Bruce Springsteen song.

And yeah, this is about baseball. About a young man, many years ago. When he was on top of the world.

I'm not going to wax nostalgic except to take it as a lesson to myself. That I was, and am, capable of accomplishing great things in my life.

If I believe in myself.

Back in the hot summer of 1975, I was selected as one of the starting pitchers for the league's All-Star team.

However, one of the coaches thought I was too risky. That although I had the best fastball in the league (over 95mph on some pitches), that I had at times had problems with control. Not often, but every once in a while I couldn't find the plate for an inning, and I would walk a few batters.

Instead, they had a tried and true pitcher from the head coaches original league team. He was cast with being the head coach for this all-star team, and he brought his best pitcher with him to the team. And of course, he was going to start him for the opening game.

I was put at First Base. I was also an outstanding hitter and fielder, so they wanted me in the game. Just not on the mound.

Well, we won that first game of the tournament. He pitched a good game, giving up only 5 hits and 2 runs. I got 3 hits out of 4 official at bats, drove in 3 runs.

That game was on a Sunday. The next game was the following Saturday. And that was a problem. They could not pitch the same person again, because league rules required a full week before they could do so.

So, my coach, who was the assistant coach for the all-star team, convinced the head coach to start me for the next game. There were one or two other pitchers available, but my coach lobbied for me, and won.

I was to take the mound for the next game.

I asked for and got my catcher. We had 2. One was from my team, who also made the all-stars. Fantastic arm, and an incredible glove. Bobby Glassheim. I will never forget him.

Mostly because he was such an incredible partner with me on the mound. He kept me honest. He knew my strengths. He knew the hitters. He was freaking amazing. We were a fantastic team.

After I blew a blazing fastball past a hitter and cleaned up with 3 straight strikeouts, he'd look at me, give me that big fucking grin, and defiantly toss the ball out to the mound for the unfortunate opposing team that had to take the field.

So, I got on that mound that day, ready. It was so fucking hot, but I loved it. Kept me loose and my arm warm. I intentionally eased way off on the fastballs during all my warmups before the game. The teams we were playing were not ones we played during the year, so they had never batted against me. I wanted that first screaming fastball to be delivered as a complete surprise.

And it was. LOL

I heard someone on the sidelines say "Holy shit".

They said that a lot that day.

I went 9 full innings. 12 strikeouts. 1 hit.

I also drove in a couple more runs at the plate.

The doubting head coach was now a believer. He dumped an entire bucket of ice water over my head at the end of the game. You have NO idea how cold that feels when you have been out on the field in 95 degree weather. LOL

One of the funniest things (for me, not for him) was to watch old Bobby when he took one of my fastballs in the center of his mitt. He learned early on to put padding inside, but it didn't always help. On more than one occasion, when I really let one rip, I would hear the crack as it hit his glove, he would stand up, take off his glove and just shake out his hand, in pain. I am sure he never forgot those. LOL

He usually needed to soak his glove hand in cold water after catching me for a game.

So, we had won the first two rounds.

The next game was on the following Sunday. Which meant...a full week would have passed. They decided to put me back on the mound for the 3rd and final game. If we won this, we won the tournament.

I was nervous now. Had come off a fantastic game the week before, but now the pressure was really on.

We (Bobby and I) decided to take a different psych approach to the warmups. We would show them some of the heat. To intimidate. It worked.

When you are an experienced pitcher, you can see fear in a batter's eyes, and their stance. You can tell when they are off balance. And many of them (the opposing team) were. That's when you show them something they aren't expecting, to really confound them. If they are expecting fastball inside, you start them off with a slow curve low and outside. Maybe another one right after that, if they are really off balance. By that time, they have NO idea what's coming next. So, after showing them two outside curves, I'd throw a monster fastball high and tight, and down they'd go. Strike 3.

It's all about being in control.

I pitched a great game. Went the distance. We won the tournament. I led in hitting, RBI's, home runs, and pitched arguably the best 2 games of my life, allowing only 3 hits in 18 innings, and something like 25 strikeouts across the 2 games.

I was on top of the world. All of my skills, the years of practice, the confidence in myself.

In the big scheme of things, pitching 2 games in a long forgotten baseball tournament at 17 years old doesn't mean much.

But it does to me.

It was me. At my very best.

It's time I put that glove and cap back on. And step onto the mound again.

Look out world. Nobody ever could hit my fastball.