It was this picture that triggered the following turn of events in the summer of 1978.
Mom: Your dad thinks you should start playing sports.
Mom: He thinks it might be good for your OCD.
Me: That doesn’t make any sense. I’m terrible at sports.
Mom: You don’t have to play competitively. Maybe just practice a little with the other boys.
Me: What’s in it for me?
Mom: Ice cream every Saturday for a year.
Me: Saturday and Sunday.
The coach requested me to show up at Pee-Wee League baseball the following Saturday. Practice was ten to twelve. I showed up at 11:30 am, thinking I was early. Practice was actually from 10 am to 12 pm. I hated this already.
Coach: You’re late.
Me: You’re vague.
Coach: Grab a glove. We’ll throw some balls to you.
Me: You’re going to throw balls at me?
Coach: That’s how it works.
Me: I don’t think so. I’ll tell you what. It’s clear I don’t want to be here, and you don’t want me here. What if you put me in the least visible position for one game to please my dad and I’ll promise not to embarrass you all season.
Coach: How does far right field sound?
Me: When’s game day.
…. To Be Continued…
For Part 2, click the link below.