Steve and Little League

I had a dream recently in which my father and my brother Steve appeared post-mortem. My dad’s role was anodyne; all I remember is that Steve did something irritating that made me angry (a not uncommon event when he was alive).

Which got me to thinking of Little League Baseball at Blaesing Field (now a cemetery). In our family construct, Steve was the gifted athlete, I was the gifted scholar. So he was a great pitcher, I was a hapless right fielder—the home of the hapless in a league with very few left-handers. Still, I recall my mother’s favorite (and true) anecdote, “Pop fly to right field. Pauli gets under it, nonchalantly flips his sunglasses down, walks forward, then looks over his head as it drops  behind him.”

We were never allowed on the same team, but we did play one game against each other. Steve was a hot-shot pitcher, I was the ninth batter. Both coaches were afraid Steve would walk me—although with my speed (or lack thereof) I wasn’t much of a threat on the basepath.

I managed one of my extremely rare hits, an infield popup. The third baseman dropped it, then threw to first, where it whizzed past the first baseman. The shocked first-base coach waved me to second, where the ball was missed again. On to third I went. Steve was turned around, trying to manage to zoo of missed catches behind him.

Long story not too much longer, I tried to stretch it into an infield home run. I bowled over the catcher (a much smaller boy) who, in the only miracle for Steve’s team that inning, held onto the ball. I’ve never seen the replay, but I don’t think it was close.