It Wasn't a Game Anymore

When you’re a late bloomer, childhood sports can pass you by.

Like most kids growing up, I liked playing sports. I wasn't particularly gifted, but even as a youngster I could hold my own in a game of touch football, and nearly everything I hit in softball made it to the outfield. But it wasn’t until I was in the fourth grade that I got to participate in the grownup game. I’m talking baseball.  

My friends and I called it “hardball,” because it wasn’t pretend anymore. No more “slow pitch.” No more underhand throwing. This was “fire-one-over-the-plate” kind of ball, the kind that our heroes Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron played. This was the real deal. 

At my church was a guy who was in college on a baseball scholarship, and he was elected to coach me and the other eager young players on the church team in the finer points of the Great American Pastime. When he asked me what position I preferred, there was no question. I always admired how Yogi Berra knelt down holding his big leather catcher’s mitt. I wanted to look just like him in his mask and pads. And though our church’s equipment was a little oversized and bulky for a nine-year old, I gratefully donned the costume and took my position behind the plate. 

My mother was not in favor of my constantly being in the line of fire of a “hard ball.” But my father and I convinced her that I was safe. “Besides, how could anyone get hurt wearing all that protective gear?” we asked her.  

I found out how. 

About halfway through the third practice, I was, as usual, behind the plate anticipating the next pitch. In it came, a little high, but the batter swung anyway, tipping it straight up into the sky. I saw my chance to make a simple but heroic catch. Looking up, my face guard shifted slightly and I lost sight of the ball against the clouds. I reached up and ripped the mask off so I could zero in on the tiny white orb. Positioning myself directly underneath it, I readied for the grab. As the ball fell from its lofty altitude, it quickly gained momentum, and before I could say “DiMaggio,” the ball landed squarely and perfectly in the socket of my left eye.  

It was a hard ball. 

At that moment I knew what it meant when the cartoon characters on TV “saw stars” after being hit. The pain was sharp and I fell to my knees, my hand cupped over my eye as other curious players gathered around to see. Soon the pain began to subside and with my one good eye, I saw the college-age coach strolling over. He looked at me for a few seconds and then joked, “Walker, you are gonna have one beautiful shiner. Now, get up and get back in the game.” 

An hour later when my mother came to pick me up from practice, the swelling around my eye was in full bloom. As I walked toward her, I saw her expression change from a confused smile to a horrified grimace. She bent down, looked at my puffy eye and screamed, “What happened?” 

“I got hit with the baseball.” I answered matter-of-factly. 

In an instant, she was in the young college student’s face, vehemently reprimanding him for “forcing” me to continue to play ball with such a debilitating injury. “He’s only nine years old!” she railed.

“It’s just a black eye, Mrs. Walker,” was all the student coach could mutter in his defense.  

He should have known better than to talk back to a mother bear protecting her cub. I don’t remember her exact words, but I do remember the scene: my mom’s anger, the speechless coach, and my dumbfounded teammates watching silently as she grabbed my arm and resolutely led me to the car.  

That was the end of my hard ball career. 

Eventually I went back to playing touch football with my school buddies, but that didn’t last either. Around the second half of ninth grade, without warning, many of the guys around me started to change. Almost overnight they were abruptly taller, stronger, faster, and more coordinated than they had been only months before. With their chiseled faces and their bodies morphing into juveniles disguised as grown men, their ability to compete in sports also blossomed. Meanwhile, I was still a semi-chubby, whiskerless kid with a voice two octaves higher than theirs, and still looking for a nice friendly game.  

I’ll never forget that year at youth camp when we chose up sides for a quick game of two-below. As play commenced, I lined up opposite a young behemoth who, though my age, was a lineman on our junior high varsity football squad. A split second after I heard the ball snap I found myself flat on my back, staring up at the sun and gasping for air. Never before had another human knocked the breath out of me, and though I was more shocked than hurt, it was then I realized I could no longer compete with nearly two-thirds of my male classmates, who now had deep voices and underarm hair. 

It was about this time that the rules changed for basketball as well. At fourteen I found myself staring into the chests of players almost a head taller than my five-foot high frame. Fortunately, what I lacked in height I made up for in speed and enthusiasm, darting around my opponents and trying to steal the ball away. I could jump too, getting some pretty good air before coming down hard on the asphalt playground. 

One winter morning before school we had all shed our coats for a quick game, trying to get a few points in before the first bell. Responding to an impressive layup from a lanky opponent, I made a particularly lofty leap in an effort to block the shot.  My jump was powerful, and the momentum of the effort put me a little off-balance while I was still airborne, so I landed hard with my legs spread wide apart. When my feet hit the ground I heard a loud and alarming rending of denim. I felt a sudden rush of cold air around my loins. Horrified, I realized I had ripped the seat out of my pants from one seam to the other.  

The other players were still busy concentrating on the rebound when the school bell rang. Everyone grabbed his coat and starting heading inside. I grabbed mine too and hurriedly put it on, the quarter-length jacket just long enough to cover the gaping hole that, had anyone been able to see, would have revealed an unobstructed view of my whitie tighties. 

Once inside, I awkwardly plopped down in my desk, its wooden seat creating an abnormally cold chill on my bare upper legs. The teacher surveyed the class and, seeing I still had on my coat, remarked, "Nicky, you forgot to hang up your jacket." 

"I'm a little cold, Mrs. Price," I told her. She looked at me quizzically, but went on to call roll without question. Throughout that period and all through the rest of the day, my coat stayed in place as I managed to hide, walk backwards and avoid bending over, until finally it came time to ride my bicycle home, my underside staying just a few inches off the seat.

Nothing was the same after that. Though I eventually started to grow and shave and sing baritone like the rest of my friends, my enthusiasm for playground sports had, by then, already subsided. 

Except for softball. Even as a late-bloomer, I was still pretty good at hitting something the size of a large orange, and I decided I was perfectly fine with slow, underhand throwing.

And in softball you usually don’t need to jump very high either.

© Nick Walker 2019

What about you? Any other late-bloomers out there? What was sports like for you growing up? Feel free to scroll down and leave a comment.