Pacifica, 1963
Chuckie Reynolds watches practice from the first base dugout. I’d seen him riding up on his bike during the middle of midweek practice. Chuckie is my third-grade classmate and a pal, but in a couple of days we’ll be facing off for the Little League minors championship. Like kids playing army soldiers, Chuckie’s just here to scout the enemy.
Dad halts practice and calls the team onto the infield to give us a pep talk for the upcoming game. “I want you to play hard,” he says, “and I want you to play fairly.” Then Dad turns and points his finger right at Chuckie, still spying from the dugout. “And if Chuckie Reynolds slides into second base with his spikes high again, I will handle it, and Chuckie’s father will have his hands full.” Dad says this in his controlled yet stern voice, and Chuckie hears every word.
We’re 11–0, Chuckie’s team is 10–1, their only loss coming when they faced us midseason. During that game Chuckie slid into second base stiff legged and spikes high, and plowed into our fielder. No one was hurt and Dad let it go, but when we got home, he was fuming. “Where does a nine-year-old learn to slide ‘spikes high’?” Evidently, Dad felt it was intentional and ordered by Chuckie’s father, their team’s manager.
So Dad says this to all of us gathered on the infield, and nobody says anything. Our eyes just go from Dad to one another and then to Chuckie, who is already on his bike, pedaling home to tell his father what Mr. Hernandez said.
The game arrives and it’s played under the lights. I’m pitching, and I’m nervous. Both bleachers behind the dugouts are full, parents and kids spilling down the first and third base lines. Wow! Standing room only! Mom says I’ve always got ants in my pants, and sometimes, when I’m really bouncing or just excited, I stutter my words, and she and Dad will gently tell me to slow down. “Your mind is going faster than your lips, son. Just relax and take your time. Slow down.” So that’s what I tell myself now, walking out to the mound for the first inning. Slow down and throw like Dad taught you:
Front shoulder tucked, not flying open, the arm motion reaching down and back, the delivery coming over the top, almost like a windmill—not sidearm or three-quarters or from the ear like a catcher. And, most important, don’t rush the delivery or the arm action. Slow and relaxed.
But I know all this, and my body knows all this, because it’s been drilled into me. Before Gary and I were old enough for organized ball, we’d head out to White Field, and Dad would conduct throwing and fielding workouts for us. The two things Dad always stressed with throwing were sound mechanics and a strong arm. The first drill was to warm up properly, then he would separate himself from us, according to our arm strength, increasing the distance little by little as our arms became stronger. We threw with 100 percent effort, in a straight line, without an arc, like an outfielder hitting the cutoff man. This is how I developed the strong arm I carried throughout my baseball career. So as I take the mound in this game, the butterflies in my stomach are there, but I’m also confident because I’m undefeated this season, sporting a dominant 5–0 record. I tell myself to stay within myself and not to rush, just like in practice. And as Dad always says, “Proper practice makes perfect.”
I go through my warm-up pitches, and the catcher throws down to second. Here we go. I look beyond the left-field line and notice Dad arriving from work just in time. He’s in full San Francisco fireman uniform, looking militarily prim and proper with his badge on his left breast, shirt tucked in. He does not have a belly like some of the other fathers, and his shoulders are square. My teammates sometimes ask Gary and me how strong Dad is, because he’s very fit and has enormous forearms that flex whenever he demonstrates things like how to hold a bat properly. He smiles and nods at me. It has a soothing effect—ever since he’d called out Chuckie’s dad at practice, the game’s prospect had been full of tension for me. But now, with Dad there, I strike out the leadoff hitter and those trepidations wash away.
It’s a blowout. We’re up 10–0 early, and by the sixth, I’m on my way to double-digit strikeouts. Dad heads back to work because another fireman has been covering for him, and Dad knows the championship is in hand. I strike out the last batter in the sixth to preserve the shutout.
I’m about to start jumping up and down with my teammates when Mr. Reynolds runs out of the opposing dugout to home plate. He’s joined by his brother, Dave Reynolds, and both men start screaming at the umpire, Mr. Steiner, accusing him of favoritism toward our team. Mr. Reynolds then grabs Mr. Steiner by the throat and starts choking him. He’s got Mr. Steiner up against the backstop, his hands wrapped around his neck, and the other parents from both foul lines are sprinting toward home plate to break it up. I can’t see if there are any punches being thrown because more and more parents are crowding around the three men.
Meanwhile, joining me on the mound is Chuckie, and we just sort of sheepishly smile at each other, shrug, and return our gaze to Chuckie’s dad and uncle attacking the umpire, with more than a dozen grown men trying to pry them apart. When they finally succeed, poor Mr. Steiner is left there, just sitting in the dirt, the dust still wafting around him while he’s propped against the backstop with his hair matted and sweaty against his pale face and his hands on his throat, trying to catch his breath.
Dad gets home the next morning and is furious. I could sense, after the first game midseason, that he was on a slow burn with Mr. Reynolds. But now Dad is irate at the man, and he’ll begin the successful proceedings of having Chuck Sr. and Dave Reynolds expelled from any further Little League activities.
But Chuckie and I will never talk about it. We’ll just go on with our lives as before—classmates, friends, and competitors. All this other stuff has nothing to do with us.