Safe on Third in West Asheville

At this moment, you are reading words written by the worst player ever to wear a glove in Little League Baseball history. I know that many people have laid claim to the title, but I am the one you’re looking for. 

As evidence, I submit: I was so bad that when I was 8 years old—and had already been chosen by Coach Hawkins to play on the 3A Malvern Hills Pharmacy team in West Asheville, NC back in 1971—I ended up being designated the batboy when the Coach deemed that my awkwardness was too much of a health insurance hazard.

I hardly believe this story myself, but I’ve been assured again of its veracity. So, it’s not just that I played right field and only played in the last two innings of the game—that’s the normal routine for a bad player—it’s that for one year, I wasn’t allowed to play at all. It is as the world’s worst Little League player that I offer this brief anecdote to you today, both as a tribute to the maligned sport of baseball and to a long forgotten Assistant Coach for the Dial Finance Franchise of 4A baseball in West Asheville in 1973.

In Asheville back in the 70s, Little League baseball was a big deal. Heck, as a result of Cal Ripken, Sr. coaching the local Double A Orioles team in Asheville (now the Asheville Tourists), I actually played Little League baseball against teams featuring both Cal Ripken, Jr. (an All-Star even then) and his younger brother Billy (no ball player back then was Billy). There were multiple teams, multiple fields and two divisions in each of two different leagues. Kids from 8 to 12 years of age played in either 3A or 4A teams. I don’t know what 1A or 2A signified, but I know we didn’t have teams in Asheville with those designations. In my small town imagination, I figured that was because we were just too damned good to have digits that small.

Anyway, each year, every player—even the Coach’s kids--had to go to try-outs where you took swings at about 10 pitches and then fielded a few balls in whatever position you wanted to play. The coaches would then hold a secret cabal and, from what I understood as a kid, each one had a certain number of imaginary points that they could use to bid on different players.

The coach of Malvern Hills, the 3A team on which I began my career, squandered most of his points every year bidding on my older brother Larry, a remarkable ball player at that level and a player who should have been playing at the more skilled 4A level, save the fact that Coach Hawkins kept him as a franchise player. Ultimately, however, it was a dumb strategy in that Coach Hawkins repeatedly fielded one of the worst teams every season. Yes, he had the remarkable Larry Sloop out on the field, and a few other kids who developed during the season, but he also had a number of us who were more interested in picking grass than catching fly balls. Obviously, given that he wanted to have my brother on the team, he spent the point or two it took to also secure my services in right field for the last two innings of every game.

My story, as I noted above, however, took place on the 4A team, Dial Finance, rather than the 3A  Malvern Hills. How, you might wonder, was I playing on a 4A team if it was the “better” league, and I’m continuing to claim to be the worst Little Leaguer player of all time? Well, that’s a side story in itself, and it’s short enough that I can tell it here without diverting far from my larger story.

Here it is: when I was 10, I showed up at try-outs and decided, after showing my birth certificate and signing in, that I didn’t want to play baseball that season. I was tired of the humiliation, tired of disappointing my family and team each week. So, I just walked away. I wandered the streets for about an hour, until my mother showed up to pick me up, and I went home, knowing that I had another week to break the news that I wasn’t playing baseball anymore.

A week later, as I was trying to figure out how to break this news to my parents and brother, the phone rang at our house. I answered it, and a gruff voice on the other end of the phone asked for me. When I acknowledged that I was in fact John Sloop, the voice announced that it was Coach Thomas of the 4A team Dial Finance and that he had drafted me onto his team. Being the disinterested youth that I was, I honest to God asked him, “Coach Thomas, why did you draft me? I didn’t even try out.” To which, he laughed: “Hell, kid, we’ve probably mixed you up with someone who can play. Practice is at 11 Saturday at the Vance School Field” and hung up.

That call changed things. I wouldn’t disappoint my family by being the worst player on a lousy 3A team that only chose me because of my brother; I would make them proud by being the newly discovered star on a 4A team. When I announced to my family that I had been drafted at the 4A level at dinner that evening, I noticed both the excitement of my mother and the utter suspicion and disbelief of my father. On my face, one would have seen the look of hope, a look that said that this was the year I would finally become a ball player.

Reality hit at practice that week. As I dropped 6 of 10 fly balls out in right field and only managed to hit a few slow rollers down the first base line, the Coach knew that he had wasted the points he had spent on me, and my teammates were clearly confused as to how I had ended up at the 4A level. Nothing changed as practices went through three-a-weeks and then into the scrimmage season. If anything, the confirmation that I was as bad as they imagined, and maybe worse, only made my teammates like me less.

It was a tough season for me. While I was used to being relegated to playing only the final two innings (teams were required to play every player for a minimum of two innings), I was not accustomed to a dugout where I was genuinely disliked for being so unskilled. In the old Malvern Hills dugout, Coach Hawkins and the team were genuinely friendly to me, despite knowing that I was the worst Little League Player in recorded history. Here, with no familial ties, everyone looked at me and thought about the opportunity cost I represented—I could almost hear them saying, “If Coach hadn’t bid on him, we could have had Robbie Gilchrist.” In addition, I still had to leave the field each night to parents who wondered how their youngest son was such a strange unskilled parallel to his older brother.

As the season began and went through its first seven games, it became clear that I wasn’t the only thing about this team that didn’t work. We were 1 and 6 and weren’t getting close in most of the games. Our eighth game was against the formidable B & B Pharmacy (where, oddly enough, I ended up working as a delivery boy for years and where my brother continues to work in a variety of capacities). They were undefeated and seemed untouchable. Our coach basically told us that, while he expected that we would lose, he wanted to see us score a few runs. All in all, the game didn’t begin as badly as expected. While we hadn’t scored in the first four innings, we had held B&B to only 8 runs. We weren’t going to win, but it wasn’t that embarrassing, either.

Given that we were the “home” team on the schedule, I moved on out to right field in top of the fifth, terrified that I would drop a number of fly balls, thus allowing B&B to begin a score onslaught. The stars, however, were aligned for me that night when, after an infield pop fly got the first batter, the second and third outs came on a double play after the second batter had hit a single to center field. The inning was over, and the worst baseball player in Little League history didn’t have to touch the ball.

In the bottom of the fifth, our left fielder, a kid whose name or face I cannot remember, got up to bat in the eighth position while I went into the on-deck circle and loaded my bat with doughnuts to take a few practice swings. Before I could get warmed up, the batter ahead of me hit a line drive back to the pitcher, who deftly caught it for the first out. I took the weights off the bat and stepped into the batter’s box. Amongst the immediate shouts of “Easy out! This kid can’t hit,” I watched the familiar scene of both the infield and the outfield moving in, knowing that I wouldn’t hit the ball far if I hit it at all.

This wasn’t a movie, so there was very little drama and no background music to smooth things over. I held the bat up, the pitcher threw what I assume was a fast ball, and I swung awkwardly and the ump yelled, “Strike!” There was nothing new here, and we were so far behind, that I didn’t feel a sense of drama or a sense of fear.

As a result, and I remember this very clearly, I immediately imagined that I could hit the ball precisely because no one expected me to. Not only that, I could hit the ball because I felt no fear about what would happen if I missed. It was one of those moments we have all had where we realize that the pressures we’ve put on ourselves are imaginary and silly. If I struck out, I did what was expected. So, why worry? It was one of the most liberating emotions I had ever experienced. As a result, when the next pitch almost hit my face and was called a ball, I was almost angry. That was going to be my hit, I thought.

I put the bat back on my shoulder. Again, while there was nothing unusual about the way the other players were acting (there was the basic chatter about what an awful player I was but nothing beyond that)  and nothing different about the talk in the stands (bored parents were talking about lawns and mortgages) I knew something was different. I could feel it. This time when the pitcher released the ball, I could see with a clarity that I had never imagined before, and I understood what it meant to say that a ball was “hanging.” There it was—fat and high on the outside corner—and I swung with all my might, only feeling any self doubt at the last second.

The sound was loud. The ball went hard and high right over the left fielders head. Let me be clear: if he hadn’t been so far in because I was an “easy out,” he would have caught the ball—I simply wasn’t that strong of a batter. But given his expectation and my sudden understanding, I had a solid and very real hit.

Dropping the bat, I ran, and I ran hard, and I ran because the coaches were telling me to run. Hell, I ran so hard that I had a difficult time stopping at third base when I was told to stay low. There I was, the worst player in Little League history, standing on third base with a triple against B&B Pharmacy. I honestly don’t remember anyone’s reactions at that point but my own. I was electrified. If you had dared touch me, you would have paid for it. When the next batter got a bloop single, I scored a run for Dial Finance and went to the dugout as if it was something I did everyday. The kid had a new swagger.

As you might guess, however, my teammates weren’t quite as impressed with me as I was. “Lucky hit, Sloop.” “I can’t believe you got that.” “Your eyes were closed.” These are the lines I remember greeting me in the dugout. Let me tell you, precisely at the moment that I was about to feel deflated, precisely at the moment when my new swagger was about to be taken away, an Assistant Coach, with whom I rarely spoke or interacted . . . Coach Johnson was his name . . .turned to the bench and said, “Shit, boys. That wasn’t luck. He smacked the hell out of that ball.” That was it. The dugout was silent.

I’ve thought about that moment for years. Coach Johnson didn’t know all the weird and complicated boy psychology he was delving into that day. Coach Johnson didn’t know that I had felt a moment of clarity standing in the batter’s box. All Coach Johnson knew was that I hit the hell out of that ball. And in saying it, he made it real.

So, while I never became a star ball player after that night, while I never really rose above being the worst player in Little League history, that night made me know that I could develop, that I could be otherwise. So, as my body developed and I became a decent amateur athlete and a fairly good distance runner, I often think about the confidence I gained that day, and the help I was given by an assistant coach that I can hardly remember.

On this opening day of Major League Baseball, then, the Worst Player Ever in Little League history would like to raise a toast to a forgotten Assistant Coach, and to all the other forgotten Coaches who do and say the right thing at the right time.

Thank you, Coach.

Comments

[Janet]

I've written several comments and seem unable to articulate how this makes me feel. This will have to do. I have both deep appreciation and utter disdain for the mythology of organized sports.

Team sports, even now, are mostly a guy thing and they certainly were sort of an afterthought for girls before Title 9. Although my parents encouraged me and trucked me around to lessons and practices, I never really excelled at either softball or basketball. I was not without athletic talent, but it just never gelled. Not enough drive, not enough natural gifts, surely, but also,in my mind, not enough coaching.

My dad devoted time to teaching basic skills, but as I joined teams as an average, (or not even) player, I rarely got better.
The coaches' energy often went into teaching the stars to win, instead of teaching the rest of us to play. Now, I clearly understand that my own rebellious (dare I say contrary) nature was a factor. I also know that winning is the goal and no one, even the benchwarmers, likes to lose. But isn't it about playing the game, too?

As an adult, I saw similar situations. I'm talking rec leagues here, where the coach's job wasn't exactly at stake. And when it is, at the high school level, ugh.

I have watched coaches inspire my sons and seen others that modeled behaviors contrary to my own values. In our culture, there's not much about sports that hasn't been explored.

How cool, though, as this post shows, that sometimes it's not about the lessons sports offers, it's about the things we choose to take away for ourselves.

[Spibby]

I played LL for only one year. My team, the Pirates(!), took the city championship as part of an undefeated season (my parents still have the trophy at their house). I learned to quit while on top.

But I can identify with the Sloopage on one point, which is that it is possible to learn something rather life-altering in these crazy sports that likely would not have been said to me in any other situation, or taken as seriously by me in any other context. If sports is the greatest source of cliches in culture, then what keeps those cliches active is that, in the moment itself and in the player's own mind, they never seem as such.

The first time I was at the plate in a real, fast-pitch game, I struck out. This was a shock to me, as I had been a very good hitter in practice. At the plate, however, on opening day, I swung at three straight balls that were so wildly over my head that I would have needed a step-ladder to jump off of in order to come close to hitting them. Three pitches in a row, each unhittable, and I swung at them like a grandfather trying to get a frisbee out of a tree with a rake.

I couldn't believe it. I struck out, and in an embarrassing way. Worse, I knew that kid was a lousy pitcher, but I'd just showed I was a lousier hitter. The ump must have seen the look on my face, as he leaned over -- after barking "Yer out!" -- and said, "You don't have to swing at them all, son."

Sometimes advice just makes sense the moment you hear it. And it isn't just that it applies to a particular task, but that it seems as though it is the missing gear in an elaborate clockwork. It's a gift; not just because it helps you to do something better, but because it breaks through a stubbornness in your own mind and creates an instant kinship and calm. The moment he said that, everything clicked. I still swung at some bad pitches, but not at all of them. And I found my swing and had a really good season. It's advice that I hold valuable still today.

The end of that miracle season started me on a better path. I remember it vividly, like a movie. In the last inning of the championship game, I was batter up. We were down one run, and I had a teammate on 2nd. This is the situation every ballplayer prays for. My side was aching, and a little blood had seeped through my uniform (the result of an old wound inflicted by an insane fan from my dark, naive past). "The Judge" was squinting at me through the blinds of his owner's box. He expected me to fail, but did not count on the fact that some ballplayers do indeed learn from their mistakes. I had worked so hard to get to this moment, after all those years, sacrificing even my beloved, hand-made bat along the way. The pitcher was a true goliath, strangely recognizable to me as a former version of myself. Was he pitching baseballs, or hurling lightening? I dug deep as he started his motion, splitting my sides but praying not to split the bat, and hit his next pitch so squarely that the crack of wood against leather may as well have signaled war. Time slowed down. The ball, impervious to gravity's claim, soared into the lights atop the stands. Why the county electrician had decided to put all those lights on a single circuit, I'll never know, but the explosion caused by each light row shorting-out in turn as I jogged the bases made it seem as though the stars themselves were falling from the night sky onto my shoulders.

The season was over; we were champions. I quit baseball for good. I moved back to my parents' old farm, where I grew wheat and raised Glenn Close's kid.

We ate a lot of boiled rabbit.

That's what Little League Baseball did for me.

[Daniel]

Personally, I hope that in my dottage I will live near a recreation center, because I will sit and watch kids play ball and that will be that.

When kids play ball, anything can happen, along with the obvious "Ah-ha!" moments. You really see this when you follow a team through multiple seasons and watch various kids "get it" at different points, but you can also see little things click just by going to random games.

I'd much rather watch youth baseball -- and I mean elementary school age -- than MLB. Youth basketball is -- unfortunately -- confined to really crappy gyms and isn't as much fun to watch. But I would watch youth football any Wednesday night (football has a weekly progression here: Tuesdays are for kids below 7th grade; Wednesdays are for middle school varsity and JV; on Thursday nights the high school B-team and JV squads mix it up; Friday is the varsity; Saturday college, and Sunday, Bears).

Professional sports has Cinderella stories, but no pro team has ever gone winless in the regular season and then won the post-season tournament to take the town title. The Cairo Middle School Comets varsity team did that in 2003. I fully intend to write a novel about that season and those kids, because they were amazing.

And they didn't even have a shoe contract.

[toast]

very nicely written, boss! and why i continue to love you, abet from afar - you know that you can never know exactly when, where or how consciousness will slip into hyperdrive and leave you deposited somewhere unimaginable and inspiring.

[steve lancaster]

my son forrest played west asheville little leauge I thought he played pretty good IF anyone remembers add a comment HE had some of the best coaches there were coach dave was one of the top coaches

[Jeff Mcwhirt]

Hey Steve lancaster i played west asheville baseball to i'm 26 now but i remember your son forrest he was a good ball player i helped mark parton coach forrest and the other kids some how is forrest doing.Well if you get this tell forrest i said hello.