Courtesy: Cincinnati.com
Don’t worry, I know the difference between football and bowling; I’m not getting the sports confused. This is a diamond-in-the-rough story.
I was living in Tennessee (home of the Vols, women with big hair, tractor pulls and monster truck rallies) and playing church softball. And let me tell you, we hillbillies could play.
Brother Don was our catcher, and it helped that he was as tough as nails. I played first base and loved the position because I didn’t have to run, and it was ideal for me being left-handed.
We had some serious softball games as the Baptists were always trying to beat the Methodists, and they tried returning the favor.
The game in question was in the 5th inning when I was coming up to the plate. I wasn’t a power hitter but could get a double or two. Being left-handed meant the opposition would shift to my right because that is where a left-handed batter gets his power. They did not realize that I was not a power hitting lefty and that when teams would put the shift on for me, I’d try to line the ball down the third base line.
“Ball, one.”
I was nervous and my heart was beating a mile a minute.
“Strike, one.”
The shift was on and when the next pitch crossed the plate, I connected and sent the softball screaming down the third base line. I put some serious “oomph” behind my swing, and the ball rocketed up against the wall.
I was around first and halfway to second as the left fielder was running towards the ball. While slowly grinding gears and motoring towards third as the outfielder reached the ball, I happened to glance at Brother Don who was coaching third and he was waving me home?
Surely he must be confused! It was Ehm circling the bases—not one of our speedy guys. Brother Don was not confused.
“Go home Kraig, go home!”
I popped my clutch, threw it into high gear around third and sort of flew towards home. Our on deck batter was watching the play and yelled “Get down!”
What a stupid thing to say. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t have any rhythm. I might as well have been told to “Boogie, oogie, oogie, till I just couldn’t boogie no more,” too.
I must confess that I wasn’t experienced as a baseball player and was never taught how to slide properly. Which leg was I supposed to lead with right or left? Should I slide inside or to the outside of the plate?
I made the decision: it would be a face first slide, one sure to make Pete Rose proud. There was only one problem as I lept into the air and began my descent toward home plate, and as fate would have it—it turned out to be a major problem.
In my attempt to accomplish the awesome, I miscalculated the distance necessary to land safely at home plate.
To put it bluntly, I stunk at math. For me to have to figure out temperature, wind, height, weight, velocity, weak ankles, and zero vertical leaping ability was something I was ill-equipped and ill-prepared to handle.
My calculations came up short, which meant I came up short, which placed me landing before my landing gear was down and locked into position.
I landed three feet short of home plate on my face.
My momentum, however, allowed me to continue my slide in an effort to score while using my face to touch home plate instead of my legs.
When my slide stopped, I was still short of the plate and had to reach out and touch home with my right hand.
“Safe!”
I had beaten the throw! I scored an inside-the-park-while-sliding-on-my-face-homerun!
Later that night at the local Waffle House, while scabs were beginning to form, my teammates reveled in my awesome slide—a run-scoring slide that produced a face-off at home.
All I had left to do was explain my face feat to my in-laws who were visiting from Michigan and watched the whole game.
