Fred Bowen's "The Score" column,
October 11, 2002, Washington Post

Big Moment for the Little Guy

This summer, Major League Baseball and MasterCard asked fans to vote for the "Most Memorable Moments" in MLB history. All the big names and their big moments are on the ballot: Mays and McGwire, Ripken and Ryan, Bonds and the Babe.

All those moments are great. But for most kids the best sports moments are smaller, more private moments. A goal in a big game. The first time you do a perfect cartwheel or a back flip from a diving board. Or make a catch that no one, not even you, thought you could make.

For me, it was my first hit in Little League. The pitcher was Allen Shelden. He was a small boy with dark hair and dark eyes tucked under a red baseball cap. He was a lefty.

When I was growing up, I loved baseball. I practiced alone for hours by throwing a pink rubber ball against the back of our family house. In my mind, my backyard was crowded with imaginary big leaguers, and in the magic of my daydreams I was taking my place among them.

My goal was to play second base for the Boston Red Sox. This was not as big a deal as it might seem. In those days, the Red Sox were a terrible team, and their second baseman was a skinny guy named Chuck Schilling who was a pretty good fielder, but not much of a hitter. Since I was skinny and had trouble hitting, I figured that I would take Schilling's place in the lineup some day.

So that April, when the New England snows had melted away, I tucked my Spalding baseball glove onto the handlebars of my bike and pedaled my dream down to the Little League tryouts at Seaside Park.

Sure enough, a few days later, Mr. Small called and asked me to be a Pirate. Naturally, I was thrilled.

Yet, despite all my dreams and an unshakeable confidence in my ability, I didn't play very much. I was 9, the youngest player on the Pirates and smallest player in the league. While my size cut into my playing time, it did prove useful to my coach. On the rare occasions when Mr. Small would let me bat, he would send me to the plate with instructions to get a walk. Following orders, I crouched low in the batter's box, making my tiny strike zone even smaller. Then, with everyone laughing and cheering, I would trudge to first base with a tarnished free pass.

Crouching at the plate was embarrassing for a little boy with such big dreams. It seemed that Mr. Small had taken all the pleasures of the game away from me. And it seemed that I would never get a chance to really play ball.

Until one day, Mr. Small sent me to the plate with instructions to "swing away." We were playing the Cardinals when I stepped to the plate with my trusty 28-ounce Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger. I remember swinging nervously at Allen Shelden's first two pitches. The next pitch came in as slow and fat as a watermelon. I swung with all my strength, striking the ball with the wide part of the bat.

Crack! The ball sailed straight as a string over the surprised shortstop's head for a clean single. I ran to first base with a pleasant sting in my hands and the crowd's cheers echoing in my ears.

And as I ran, I was certain, absolutely certain, that Chuck Schilling could hear my every footstep.

© 2002 The Washington Post Company