Ok, I was never athletic as a kid, nothing’s changed much fifty years later.
It’s just not in me to catch, run, tackle, hit, throw, and did I mention catch?
But alas, every little boy in Germantown, Ohio had to play baseball for at least one season. If they didn’t, there was probably something wrong with him.
So, at the age of 7, 8, or 9, Daddy loaded me in the car and signed me UP to play Little League. I was on Jack’s Service Station’s team.
Jack was a Baptist, like us, but went to a church in another town.
Daddy was the Baptist preacher. That’s right, I’m a preacher’s kid. Who knew.
Now, Mother and Daddy both said, “Keep your eye on the ball.” “Let it come to you.” (It’s headed right at ya, where the heck else is it gonna’ go?) and my faaaaaaavorite, “Pay attention to the game.”
As the coach became more and more aware of the limitations of my baseball abilities, I moved further and further away from the center of the action. Binoculars were involved.
Frankly, there were times the game was over before I got to my position deeeeeeeeeep in the outfield. And I’m sure I could hear the conversations on the Cane’s front porch across the street.
But once, just once, the ball came my way. Tommy Murrell, the Church of God’s preacher’s son, hit a slammer all the way to Comstock Street.
Everyone knew this was a home-run for sure, and there was no way I’d catch it.
But I did.
With my face.
So, my joy in a winning Braves or more importantly, Reds Season aside, baseball and the Church of God just don’t do anything for me at all.