Getting to Second Base

"Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride." John Fogerty from "Centerfield".

When the nurse arrived for my pre dawn sponging and not very happy ending, I noticed that her left nostril was not exactly clear of debris. At the time I wasn’t sure if it was residue from a nasty head cold or the fossilized remnants of her weekend with the Indoor Aspen Lift Lines. But when I mentioned the nose boulder, poor little Miss White shoes turned a shade of red that would rival the Rising Sun on the Japanese kamikaze planes. It got me thinking of my own most embarrassing moment.

I preface this anecdote with a few details about my adolescents. My incredibly wonderful mother was a single woman with an 8,5, and 4 year old in 1974. She worked two gigs just to keep us ion Tough Skins and Frenkenberries. Any extra dough was, oh who am I kidding, there was never any extra coin. But at the age of 7, by the by I was the 5 year old in the previous number sequence, she managed to get me some cleats, a mitt, and signed me up for Little League. Being the second boy in the "Heir to the Foil Crown" lineage, I got my brothers baseball pants which he had out grown. Didn’t matter, I was dressed and ready to play.

Seeing is that the matriarch was always working I lived a mostly unsupervised latch key existence. I rode my Schwinn BMX with super boss knobby tires everywhere. To school, home, even baseball practice. It was the last great time to be a free wheeling youth in this country. The other boys on the team were Jolly Green Giant green with envy of my freedom.

our genius of a coach determined that I should play second base because of my redwood like dexterity and Musnster-esque footwork. He was the coaching equivalent of the Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da lad fro Life Goes On. Anyway, I’m in the middle of the third game of the season, doing my natural first basemen best to cover the second bag when a worm burning grounder scutters off to my glove side. I have no chance at netting the ball in traditional fashion so I improvise a risky leg save. It works to near perfection. I say near because after throwing the batter out to a ruckus hail of praise from the crowd, I look down to see my athletic cup on the ground.

Upon further analysis of the situation I would be completely mortified to find my wee seven year old cock and undropped sack on display for a good portion of the East Whittier Little League Division 1 faithful. There was some gasps of shock, a few chuckles, and at least one "Look at that!" Placing the mitt over my as yet undeveloped junk, I hustled like Pete Rose to the bench for the remainder of the game. But it’s not over. Super Mom dashed to car like Wally West, bringing me back a mildew ridden towel to wrap myself up in. We can’t go get me new trousers because, as luck would have it, my brother had a game starting right after the conclusion of my semi-erotic showcase of a game. I spent the better part of the day walking amongst my team and classmates in a cotton hula skirt.

After that I never played second base again.

Do you have an embarrassing moment you care to share? Maybe a story about someone else? Change the names to protect the innocent if you have to.

Dixie Cup of Love: This ones for Mom