Peer Review

Milwaukee County Minor baseball

It’s ten minutes before game time and I’m still waiting for a quorum. I have a spare Charlie’s Cabaret uniform in case we need a volunteer from the crowd. Crowd being a euphemism; this is Milwaukee County Minor baseball. We’re only about half a notch away from the Milwaukee County Softball leagues (one swinging strike – the games last about a half hour). Guess I should mention that Charlie’s Cabaret is a euphemism too; it’s the bar we drink at after (and occasionally before) our games. It’s a cabaret only in that it has three bowling lanes in the back.

At the last-minute Mick and Mark show up. At this point no one is quite sure which is Mick and which is Mark, they always travel as a pair. I’m grateful though, this means we only need one recruit to field a team. I grab Stacey from the stands, she changes clothes in my car and heads out to right as we take the field. This is a men’s league but I’m betting on no one cares; she’s better than about five of the guys she’s playing with anyway, me included.

Jonny V finishes his warmup pitches and Bill, our left-handed catcher, tosses it to second and we’re set to go. You don’t see many left-handed catchers even though there’s no particular reason it couldn’t work. What’s even rarer though is a left-handed catcher’s mitt so Bill plays with a reversed right-handed mitt, with all of his fingers stuffed into the thumb. He doesn’t actually catch pitches, he stops them, picks up the ball, throws it back.

We’re playing Saz’s and their first batter comes up with all the accoutrements: batting gloves, toe protector, elbow protector, and even the newest, hottest thing – the thumb ring. He calls time to make sure everything is aligned just right and doesn’t step into the batters’ box until perfect.

I know a couple of things that better doesn’t. First, Jonny V does not suffer fools; and second Jonny V prefers to pitch from the stretch anyway. The first pitch plunks the batter in his only unprotected spot – right in the ribs. He gives us a soliloquy, so we all feel his pain as he makes his way to first. And we’re off!

 A word about our team. We’re mostly comprised of guys who’d be just as happy just getting together to play catch once a week or skip it altogether and meet at Charlie’s instead. We do have two real players though. Jonny V pitched in college and is the reason we win more than we lose. The other is our first baseman Jeff. Over 1400 players have made it to the major leagues and collected exactly one hit. Jeff is one of those 1400, which he will never tire of telling you or anyone else within hearing distance. The ROI on that bloop single is off the charts; every summer Jeff gets laid once or twice just on the basis of that story.

But that’s not what I’m concerned with right now. I’m playing second base. I’m an outfielder by trade; I can track a fly ball fairly well but, well, if I was a hockey goalie I’d have to rely on kick saves. My glove and things traveling on the ground rarely meet. Jonny throws hard so I’m in play with every righty. I just hope it’s a lazy fly ball kind of a day.

The game proceeds. Either they don’t notice or don’t care when Stacey comes to bat. We take the lead in the third when Stacey singles to right and Jeff doubles her in.

Ordinarily Jonny would take it home from here but in the fifth Saz’s cleanup hitter catches hold of one of Jonny’s ill-advised changeups and triples down the left field line. The next batter hits a foul ball right up the chute, halfway between home and first. Jeff settles under it and waits for it to come down. Unfortunately, our catcher, he of four fingers in the thumb who hasn’t caught anything all day, decided to make a play for it as well. He bumps into Jeff, but Jeff still manages to snag the fly the fly about halfway down the first base line. When he gives Bill the required wtf look, and while they’re looking at each other they come to the simultaneous realization that no one is covering home. Unfortunately the runner on third reached that same decision earlier and he waltzes in with the tying run. In my head I’m thinking only Charlie’s Cabaret can give up a 40-foot sacrifice fly (not technically true; a sacrifice fly has to be beyond the infield). Regardless, the game is knotted up.

This proceeds to anger the two umpires to all heck. They get fifty dollars a game and, although impartial, they fervently root for a quick game and for the home team to win. They’ve seen enough of our lineup to conclude that us producing another run is unlikely. So instead, to speed up the process they widen the strike zone. It’s almost like we’ve morphed into a Milwaukee County softball game.

It’s the bottom of the seventh and I start the inning with a walk. I take my lead at first but not particularly far – my crowning achievement in high school was getting picked off at first to end a game and our tournament hopes. It’s not the type of mistake one is apt to repeat. Stacey lays down a nice sacrifice bunt and I’m on second with one out.

Jeff proceeds to slash one to right on the first pitch. I’m off at the crack of the bat and I’m circling third and heading for home. About halfway home I start to suffer buyer’s remorse – I can see the throw and its clearly going to beat me. I think about hitting the brakes and returning to third but instead I start stumbling, still heading home. At the last moment I take a superman leap so to at least land somewhere in the vicinity of the plate. At the same instant the catcher gets the ball in front of home and attempts a swipe tag on my legs. Well, at least where my legs would have been if I hadn’t stumbled. He misses completely and his momentum takes him into foul territory. I, trying to avoid a complete facial, go into a tuck, flip ass over teakettle with my head in the dirt and plop down with my butt landing exactly on home plate. Good has triumphed over evil 2-1.

Two drinks into the night and Jonny V magnanimously offers that my move was so clumsy it almost appeared athletic. Mick and Mark are busy scouring YouTube, convinced this may be the first time a winning run was scored with a butt touch of home. Me? I take it all in as I’m sipping my beer, thinking about next summer and that sweet, sweet single strike softball league.