Bambino Basebrawl

Once again, an extended discussion based on Bambino baseball has broke out in the comments; it is far from the first time on this blog, and sure to be far from the last. And every time, it gets me thinking of that magical time in our lives when friendships were put on hold for two 6-inning games every Monday and Wednesday night when we were 10-12 years old. Here is the story of the greatest Bambino game I was ever involved in.

[Note: there are probably only about 15 of you who will legitmately care about this long-winded story from our childhood. The rest of you are on your own. Hey, if I could get Morgan Freeman to narrate it, I would.]

We were 12 years old, the 'veterans' of the league. It's the Reds (featuring the likes of Dunph, Henneman, and Cory Solem) vs. the Red Sox (featuring myself, Schneweis, and a bunch of other guys who actually had a batting average over .200.)

Dunph and I are the starting pitchers, so this promises to be an interesting game, full of shit-talking between noodle-armed 6th graders who think they're awesome pitchers, all the while struggling to hit 40 mph on the radar gun.

Our leadoff hitter is a spark plug of a 9-year-old (meanwhile, I hit like 7th in the order, and I don't know where Schne was at. I told you we sucked at hitting.) He squares around to bunt, and Dunph plunks him right in the ballsack. In typical fashion, he looks to our dugout, makes eye contact with me, and laughs. Heeere we go.

Bottom of the inning, Dunph comes up. I bury the first pitch in his thigh. Our coaches, including my dad, exchange glances, as up to that point, I've only beaned one hitter in my life. I come up the next inning, Dunph puts one in my back. Eyebrows are raised. Next time through the order, I plunk Big Hen. Now the umpire is having a discussion with both teams' coaches. After Dunph hits another batter (can't remember who--Schne, was it you? Maybe Mike Eickman or someone?) he gets tossed. I giggle from the bench, until I see who is coming in to pitch: Cory Solem, the wildest pitcher in the league. He made Rick Vaughn look like Greg Maddux.

So, predictably, he gets ejected (there is an automatic ejection if you hit 3 people in a single inning. I'm pretty sure none of his were intentional, he just has no idea where his pitches are going.) By this point, both teams are openly screaming at each other from the dugouts; things are unraveling fast.

Our head coach gives me explicit instructions not to hit anyone else; he was a classy guy. I give him my word that I won't. Things settle down for an inning or two. However, due to a lack of able bodies after the ejections, the Reds are forced to insert their 7-year-old batboy into the lineup. I think it was the youngest Brown brother. He digs in, waving a bat around that is bigger than he is, sporting a helmet that is about 7 sizes too big, wearing a menacing scowl across his face. I start laughing a little bit. I'm not trying to show anyone up, especially a scrappy little 1st or 2nd grader (who is practically growling in the batter's box, he's so pumped up.) So I turn my back to the plate and walk around to compose my laughter. That's when I bump into my 1st baseman, who is standing no further than 6 feet away from me. The rest of my infield, likewise, is gathered in a tiny semi-circle around the mound. I suppose it's the correct defensive positioning, considering the kid up to bat is just one year removed from tee-ball.

However, this does nothing to help my laughing fits. My first pitch bounces about 10 feet in front of home plate, leading to jeers from the Reds' dugout and bleachers. The infield is alive with chatter. Toby Blake comes up and gives me a slap on the back, then returns to his shortstop position, about 3 steps behind me. With bursts of laughter racking my body, my next pitch makes it to the plate....and dings Little Brown in the head.

Pandemonium ensues. My immediate concern is Solem. I am still occasionally awoken in the middle of the night by nightmares of him storming out of the dugout in a Forrest Gump-like frenzy, pummeling me to the ground as everyone watches, then slowly climbing to his feet, looking around, and mumbling, "Sorry I got into a fight in the middle of your Black Panther party..."

When he is restrained by teammates, I turn my attention to the crowd, who has mistakenly come to the conclusion that I beaned him on purpose. Bambino parents are notorious for getting unrealistically fired up; just try and picture them now. I thought for sure a brawl was going to break out, either on the field or in the stands. It would've been "my dad can beat up your dad" come to life.

In actuality, however, cooler heads prevailed. I was ejected, and although I was trying to look tough as I left the field to my first-ever ejection, I headed straight to the bench, saw Little Brown mean-mugging me as he stood on first base, and completely broke down in hysterical laughter. The rest of the game passed without incident. To be honest, I remember all this ridiculous crap about this game, but I have absolutely no idea who won. Probably us, the Reds were awful that year.

The last thing I remember is going through the handshake line. Dunph and I were laughing, which is surprising since we've been known to get in huge fights over less. Then I come to Little Brown, with Solem walking behind him with his hands on his shoulders. I open my mouth to apologize, but Solem beats me to it. "Ok, show him what we practiced" he tells Little Brown. As I stand there in bewilderment, a tiny little 7-year-old fist shoots through the air and punches me in the stomach.

I will never forget that game as long as I live. I'll be telling my grandkids about that one....unless I'm feeling lazy, then I'll probably just give them the URL to this blog instead.

Happy Friday, let's go out there and get after it this weekend.