Never in all of baseball lore has there been such a game.
The Mighty Cubs vs. the Lowly White Sox, Wheaton Park District, AA level, 11- and 12-year-olds, the regular season drawing to a close and the White Sox yet to taste victory. The league created the White Sox to eke out a fourth team for scheduling purposes. Many players, reportedly, had never played organized ball. The coach never coached before. In his misguided idealism, he shuffled the players into positions like third base where the poor nominee couldn’t get a throw to first base in less than three bounces.
Tyler, my baseball-loving grandson, who has a rifle arm but spent years being overlooked by coaches whose sons got all the attention and playing time, suddenly found himself the elder statesman on a team of hapless beginners. Is it better to be overlooked on a team that wins or be one of the top players on a team that loses?
Yet ever-so-gradually, as the season groaned on, slaughter-rule defeat after defeat, the boys haltingly began to improve, as did the coaching. And the better teams, who wanted to rest their top pitchers, gave their less-experienced kids a chance on the mound against our team. Which increased our on-base percentage, mostly through walks, but occasionally making contact with the bat when wayward pitches strayed over the plate. With more runners on base, run production increased. In the field, some players began catching the ball. Even catchers sometimes caught the third strike from time to time, preventing the long moonshot of a throw to first, which generally arrived after the runner did. And our pitchers benefitted from all the extra practice, forced to strike out up to six batters in order to get out of an inning.
Now, in the season’s late stages, they were out to prove that practice never makes perfect but does make improvement.
Then came the overconfident Cubs, counting among their better players Tyler’s twin first cousins, eager for bragging rights.
The game began as if the Cubs expected a quick slaughter, dominating at the plate — but not on the mound. White Sox batters kept getting on, stealing bases, scoring runs. Spectators tried not to mention the obvious: we were keeping pace. Cheering too much might jinx things, but we kept exchanging furtive, knowing looks.
When the Sox actually took the lead, spectators shook their heads in disbelief. So did the Cubs.
Somehow, going into the next to last inning, we were up by 5 runs, and Tyler was sent in to pitch. He struck out the first batter, who reached base when the pitch got past the catcher. The throw actually beat the runner, which so unnerved the first baseman, he fumbled the ball.
But Tyler was locked in and struck out the next two. The umpire had never called so many strikes in succession! He could hardly believe his eyes! And the catcher somehow gloved strike three!
The next batter hit a pop-up in the general vicinity of the second baseman, who froze, then at the last second lunged and made the most spectacular shoestring catch of an infield fly in the history of baseball, ending up sprawled in the dust dunes, holding up his prize. Even Pete Crow-Armstrong has never made such a catch.
Parents peered at their phones, disbelieving what the Game Changer app was telling them. “We’re … winning?” Yes!
In the bottom of the fifth, we load the bases and the kid who made the great catch connects and sends the ball into the vast beyond, clearing the bases. To the plate strides Tyler, who already has three hits and 5 RBIs. He cocks his elbow and regards the pitcher with steely resolve, a grizzled veteran at the age of 12.
Two strikes later, unperturbed, he readies and waits. The pitch evolves toward the plate! He swings! Nothing but air! Mighty Tyler has struck out … but wait! The ball is trickling to the backstop! Tyler scampers up the first base line and beats the throw! He steals second! The next batter puts the ball in play and the throw to first is late! Casey Trainor rounds third, heading for home like an antelope in a WTTW Nature special! The first baseman throws a strike to the catcher! Tyler crumples into a heap in the dust, beneath which, somewhere, lies the plate! The umpire extrapolates! Safe! Game over! Slaughter Rule invoked!
Never before in the history of 12-year-olds has there been such a game. Parents and grandparents rise unsteadily from their lawn chairs, unaccustomed to having so much to cheer about, giving their ballers a Standing O, but the players are bounding like a herd of happy gazelles toward the left field grass for the post-game wrap-up, where the coach confirms the unthinkable. The larger number belongs to us! We won!
All is forgiven, every booted ball, every outfielder who can’t bring himself to throw the ball to the cutoff man, every passed ball third strike, all of it has come to fruition.
Finally … there is Joy in Dustville!