Sports Can Be A Rigorous Test Of A Man's Limitations And Of His Ideals

I have been thinking about why I'm not playing in the major leagues or in the NBA. It has something to do with my physique, of course, with the talent I wasn't born with, with the dedication I didn't have—all those things. But I prefer to think it has most to do with the faith I have in ideals.

Like most children who play ball games, I held aspirations to greatness and had to have them drummed out of me before I'd give them up. (I was born with two fingers missing on one of my hands, but I believed that made me remarkable as an athlete.) It was only recently, though, that I knew how valuable it was for me, first to have those dreams and then to have them frustrated. How else would I have gotten so clear a view of the difference between what I have and what I want? How else would I have learned so thoroughly what a rugged path it is to the right way to do things?

My father used to say something to me when I was playing Little League baseball. "You don't strike out because you won't strike out." I was scrappy, according to him, and I played like Eddie Stanky. He admired my style. "Smart and sneaky, Stanky," my father said. I heard all about Stanky's tactic of sliding hard and kicking the ball out of a fielder's glove.

I remember our team, a bunch of raggedy kids who liked winning. We wore green hats with the peaks creased fashionably, just so. We had more coaches—nine—than any Little League team; they included the fathers of two of our players and a gnarled little man and his six grown sons. All of them seemed to think alike about baseball. During practices we listened to lectures on aggressiveness. We had a drill in which the biggest guy on the team—the Bomb, we called him—put on the catcher's equipment and stood at home plate with the ball. One at a time the rest of us tried to score from third by zooming in and attempting to knock the ball from his hands. "Run the big guy down," we were counseled. The Bomb deflected us in various directions. We represented our sponsor, the town's sanitation department, well. On the bench we talked about cleaning up the league, as if that were really our business and not just a joke. Two-thirds of the way through the season we were undefeated.

We had a big game scheduled against the team in second place, a team that had lost only to us. All day in school I watched the clouds gather and wondered if it would rain before we could play that night. The evening darkened early, and as our fathers wandered to the field after work, they carried their umbrellas. Standing at my position, second base, I saw my father drive by, and I knew he would park around the corner.

The game was close. A big fellow named Hans pitched for the other team. He was incredibly gangly, and he could really throw. In the third inning, though, the Bomb plastered one and ended up on second. Then another guy singled and the rightfielder threw to the plate. The Bomb came careening in and ran over the catcher, who'd been waiting for him with the ball. He was a little guy, the catcher. When he squatted to catch, his chest protector tickled the ground. The Bomb blasted him, and the little guy landed a good distance away, still holding the ball. Our coaches were yelling, "Way to go, Bomb."

In the next inning I singled. Then I stole second. The little catcher's throw went wild, and I left for third. The throw from center had me beat, but I slid and kicked the ball out of the third baseman's glove.

The opposing bench was along the third-base line. Their coach—Mr. Lipkin, as I shall call him—came off the bench and walked toward the base. "Don't worry about it, Richie," he said to the third baseman. "Don't worry about it. They're a dirty team."

I didn't score because the Bomb struck out. Between innings the rain started, and it came down so hard and fast that everyone knew the game was over, a tie.

My father and I tried to stuff my bicycle in the trunk of his car, but it wouldn't fit all the way. We left the handlebars hanging out and tied the trunk roof down over it. We got soaked. When my father backed the car up to pull away from the curb, the handlebars of the bike went through the grillwork of the car parked behind us. My father said something unsportsmanlike and got out of the car. Then he got back in, wrote a note on a piece of paper he pulled from the glove compartment and got out again.