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Originally Posted by Rain Man
The year was 1975. The place: Hickory Hills Elementary School in Springfield, Missouri.
It was a clear spring day, isolated clouds drifting on a sea of cerulean blue. The shouts of children filled the air.
I was at second base. I always played second base, and no one questioned it. We all knew our strengths and our weaknesses, and no one questioned my ability with a glove.
There was one out, and we were up 3 to 1 in the middle innings. The teacher hadn't come out with her whistle yet, so we all knew that there was no urgency...yet. Paul Bushong was on second, and held off my good-natured attempt to push him off.
Who was up in the batting order? My eyes widened. Big Bart Tindle was striding toward the plate. We began waving the outfield back. Bart was five feet and five inches of towering giant, 130 pounds of muscle, almost as tall as the tallest girls and much more beefy. He was mighty Casey in any sport we played, by virtue of good genes and early puberty.
I knew Bart well. We had matched up before, many times. I was four feet and eleven inches tall, 90 pounds of bone and flash, the second-tallest boy in the class, so we were often on opposing teams. We were Chamberlain and Russell, Montana and Marino. We respected each other's skills, but in our hearts we knew that we each were the other's barrier to success.
Mark Cooper was on the mound, and he put the pitch up. Ball One. The second pitch was in the dirt. Mark knew not to give Bart something to hit. He knew that Bart was impatient, and that he would eventually swing. We all helped, chanting that Bart was off his rocker, just like Betty Crocker. You could get in Bart's mind with that stuff.
The third pitch nicked the inside of the plate. It also nicked Bart's bat. Spinning crazily, the ball rocketed toward John Greenbank at first base, too hot to handle. It bounced off John, and Bart barreled toward first.
A scramble ensued amongst the gaggle of backup first basemen. For the most part, these were girls who were concentrated in a low-traffic spot hoping to avoid being hit. They were not ready to field a ball. John darted through them, and Bart hit first base. Bart knew about the backup first basemen, knew them well, and he made the bold decision to go for second. The great beast of a man-child sprinted toward me.
Lisa Felix saw her chance. Small and bespectacled, her trademark was her bare-handed style, made possible only by the fact that she had never actually fielded a ball. Today was different, though. Today was her Yorktown, her Kursk. Today was the day that she would become a baseball player.
She knelt down and cleanly fielded the ball. Aware that she threw like a girl, she evaluated her options quickly. There was only one decision to make, and she was one sharp girl. She handed the ball to John Greenbank.
John whirled and threw, hoping to beat the giant to second base. I was left of the bag, crouched and ready. Bart was coming. The ball was coming. Only physics could predict which would arrive first.
The answer was never revealed. The ball was to my left. So was Bart. The ball was in the base path. So was Bart.
So was my arm. Never slowing, Bart knocked my arm away. The ball went by, embarking on a tour of left field. Bart parked on second. He turned toward me. He turned toward left field. He made a break for third.
Now, I don't normally consider myself a violent man. I broker peace deals. I negotiate. I avoid conflict by hiding. But this was intolerable. I had him dead to rights. He should have been trudging back to the backstop, having learned not to challenge Felix to Greenbank to Raines.
But he wasn't. He was heading toward third, and the ball was in left field, and the girls chasing it ran like girls and threw like girls, and had no chance of getting the ball back into the infield except by bucket brigade. Paul Bushong was already home, and Bart was the tying run, the hero for his team.
There comes a time when a man has to act. There are also times when a man has to lash out mindlessly. This was one of those times.
I met Bart at the shortstop position, behind him and to his right. Football was my sport, and I knew how to hit. I nailed him.
Two hundred and twenty pounds of us went sprawling into the dirt. Two hundred and twenty pounds of us got back up, of which a hundred and thirty pounds was pissed. I held my ground. Sometimes a man has to do that.
Sometimes a man has to know when to give up, too. That's what sets the smart ones apart. The clouds drifted by. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue. The bottom of Bart's foot was on my face. A teacher ran.
The shouts of children filled the air.
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