My earliest memory of little league baseball was when I was probably in the third grade and sported a very bright blue baseball uniform sponsored by a local lumber company. I don't recall if I was a particularly adequate hitter, but I do vividly remember partaking in a position battle with my coaches. I enjoyed playing the infield, second base in particular, but more often than not I would be asked to catch. I imagine there had to be some reason why I, of all people, was asked to play behind the plate. Did they see that I could handle the glove well? Did I look big enough to block the plate when another eight year old came storming in? Were there plans for me to throw out a runner at second base with my highly untested throwing arm? I have no idea. They never told me!
Here was the problem: I hated it. It was a combination of having to wear a mask that I had trouble seeing out of as well as a lingering fear of getting clipped by the batter's swing. Remember, I was an eight year old who was fearful of what other eight year olds might do, so even though a flailing back swing isn't seen in most baseball games I apparently anticipated the worst. I do remember one time where a ball was hit in front of the plate and, as there was a runner speeding towards home at the time, it was my duty to go and get the ball. I didn't even think to take off my mask, so there I was stumbling about trying to find the ball with limited vision. Needless to say, that runner was safe. Eventually, mercifully, I was excused from catching duties. It likely had a lot to do with my mom having had enough of the coaches' perseverance at making an eight year old dread playing each game and letting them know about it.
For the next year, on the Athletics, I primarily played the infield and pitched. Pitching was more like throwing, actually, and I would just throw whatever I could at the batter and hopefully get it over the plate. No curve, no slider, no fastball, no change up... just chuck it. I think they kept me on the mound because I could be accurate some of the time and even get it to the plate, but I beaned my fair share of hitters. I remember there was one kid on my team who I plunked quite often during batting practice and I always had to apologize for making his arm and side consistently black and blue. What I lacked in fine pitching ability I tried to make up for in hitting, as I was successful with the tried and true inside the park home run. This was not due to blazing speed, of course, but for the ineptness of the pint-sized outfielders. That didn't bother my teammates none as I high-fived on through the dugout after each one. Our team got the championship that year but lost. I think I still have my second place tower of plastic somewhere!
Following that memorable year, I was a member of the Tigers. In a bit of embarrassment, this was the year that I found out that my younger brother (who was also on the Athletics with me) was promoted to the little league 'majors' while I apparently was stuck in the 'minors'. Not knowing how that happened, I would tell people that they just accidentally took the wrong brother in a kind of name mix up. It probably actually had something to do with my brother's fielding ability, or swing path, or speed, or... well, perhaps a lot of things. I continued to be a thrower on the mound, only to be a bit worse at it (it was the last year of my pitching career if you catch my drift), and I primarily played first base. I could never dig short hop throws out of the dirt, so I was a bit of a liability when the inevitable ten year old short lob to first never quite made it to me. I still could hit a ball far and became a bit of a terror at the plate thanks in part that I was getting taller and feasted on the lighter throws of little league pitching. One time I tomahawked a ball deep into the outfield because the pitch was so high... needless to say, my plate discipline was wild. I found out later that my two coaches, guys on motorcycles and jackets to match, were a bit nefarious in the community and to the law. Nice guys, though.
My last couple of years in little league baseball was encapsulated in the Babe Ruth League. I feel that I participated in that league for a number of years, but the only year I recall in particular was when I was a member of the Astros. Somewhere along the way I got relegated to the outfield, which was probably a good thing because the balls were coming at me faster, I was likely noticeably slower at getting to them, and I never did figure out those short hops. In the outfield I could see the ball coming, even if sometimes it was on the ground (whew!) or in the air (oh no!). These were the days of not knowing how deep to play, or of considering the idea of always trying to keep the ball in front of you, so I probably lined up as if no one could get a hold of one. I often found myself doing the ill-advised back peddle to try and catch a fly ball over my head, only to then turn and run after it. The field I played on had no fence, so I would just run and run and run. The good thing about me playing the outfield, though, since I had to go get the ball so often was that I learned that I had an arm. I could really chuck it, though more often than not I would be throwing it in the direction of the runner and essentially ignore the cut-off man waving wildly at me. Needless to say, I doubt I made any of those cut-off men happy as the ball sailed over their heads into the no man's land of the inner diamond.
Now that the pitchers really knew what they were doing, my bravery at the plate had diminished. Like my brief tenure as a catcher, I started to get really worried about getting beaned as the baseballs whizzed by over the plate. Granted, I don't recall getting hit too often, but it was the possibility of it that tended to keep me off the plate. I also couldn't judge whether a pitch was a ball or strike, so more often than not I struck out because a ball that looked a bit outside was probably just over the plate. As many of my teammates tried to tell me (some in more forceful language than others), I really needed to just swing the bat. It took a long time, and many games of experienced derision, for me to realize that just swinging the bat over the plate might make some contact that would show I cared enough to win. One time during these 'get it over with' realization spells, I slugged a triple to right center over the outfielder's head because they were playing in (my reputation preceded me, no doubt). In a season of meaningless baseball, as well as a continued longing to be playing video games or reading comic books instead, I at least had a highlight or two to remember before my career ended.
So yes, that was my baseball playing experience. I think, since it ultimately didn't end all that well, I didn't easily find enjoyment in the sport while I was playing it. The appreciation came later when I realized that the strategy of the game, as well as its sights and smells, had won me over. I can still play a decent left field when given the chance and, unlike many years ago, I think I'd be more up for letting the bat do its thing if only to get a few more sprints to first in.
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