Little League monsters
ESPN’s Page 2 has a wonderful story on Little League monsters, i.e., the kid who has a growth spurt first, while sustaining some measure of hand-eye coordination. The monster can mash the ball, and throw the ball so hard it leaves a trail of fire. It’s true. I’ve seen it.
The evolution of aspiring ballplayers is pretty much as author Joe Demartino describes. In Pinto League, which is what I think they called it back then, by dint of being reasonably coordinated and a study of what I’d seen big league players do on TV, I was a slick-fielding, slap-hitting infielder. I knew to cover third as a shortstop if the third baseman had run in to cover a bunt. As a lefty hitter I had lots of opposite field hits.
In retrospect, this should have been a sign of slow reflexes that would prohibit me from turning on future monster’s inside fastballs. At the time, however, it surely meant I would hit for average, and rise to The Show in due course.
Age 12 is when the great differentiation happened. I was a stalwart 4′8″ or so. When I entered high school I believe I was literally the 5-foot, 100-pound character in the old Charles Atlas ads.
Meanwhile, Monsters had begun to appear. Suddenly there were pitchers who were 6-foot, or quite near. Six-foot physics is very different than 4′8″ physics. As a still-short pitcher, I learned a curveball. If it worked it was a big bendy Barry Zito thing that started in at the batter’s box and landed at the outside corner. Nasty. If it didn’t, I was a near-lock to pelt a right-handed hitter. As a middle-schooler / high school freshman, this, too, should have been a bad sign. I remember hitting three batters in a row when the thing didn’t bend, before settling down. Early adolescent baseball = High beta.
I remember a fateful matchup against a local Monster. I think we were playing a western suburb team, maybe Buffalo Grove. They had a Monster pitcher. I’m sure his name was Moose. If not, it should have been.
It was the last inning. We were down. I was hitting. Two outs. Moose was bringing heat. It was a night game, under the lights, and I’m sure the ball was glowing from the friction generated as it entered my local atmosphere. I could hear the wind. Whoosh. My jaw rattled as it hit the catcher’s mitt. Smack.
I eventually eked out a walk. Again, Little League = high beta. Strikeout pitchers are just as likely to walk you.
Proud of having preserved what would no doubt be a rally, I stole second. Scoring position. Sweet. Got ‘em where we want ‘em.
I was then thrown out trying to steal third. No way to end a game. Game Over. Monster won. I focused on soccer.