Baseball is a game of nine, replete with colorful players who have colorful nicknames. Here are just a few: Hammerin’ Hank (Hank Aaron), Babe (George Herman Ruth, Jr.), Shoeless Joe (Joseph Jefferson Jackson), Pee Wee (Harold Peter Henry Reese), Yogi (Lawrence Peter Berra), Woonsocket Rocket (Rocco Baldelli), The Yankee Clipper (Joe DiMaggio), Pops (Willie Stargell), Kung Fu Panda (Pablo Sandoval), and Meals On Wheels (me)—but I will explain that one in a minute.
I have had numerous nicknames in my lifetime: Radar—because in high school basketball I could bomb the “three” even before there was a three-point line. Gilligan—because as manager for my college basketball team, I once wore a floppy hat resembling the “little buddy’s”. And then there was Meals on Wheels—a nickname I tagged myself with during church softball due to the nature of my physique, or rather, my lack of one. There was one instance during a seven-inning shindig where my nickname reared its ugly midsection.
Playing church softball is great. More than getting a clutch hit or making a great defensive play, I love the camaraderie among us extremely minor leaguers—my fellow pew sitters and me.
Making fun of a teammate immediately after he bobbles a grounder, strikes out, or trips while running out a grounder to first is great fun.
One summer while living and playing in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, there was a football player from Michigan Technological University on our team. The fullback, Bryan Wedan, was short, muscular, and could run like the wind. He also led the Huskies in rushing for three out of his four years in college. In other words, he reminded me of me before the accident (I got locked in a Krispy Kreme one night and had to eat my way out).
Anyway, our fullback Bryan played rover in the outfield. He was so fast we called him “Wheels.” Playing him at rover allowed the speedster to cover a multitude of sins in the outfield.
Before a game one night, I said, “Well, if Bryan is ‘Wheels’, then I must be ‘Meals on Wheels.’ Ha.” “Wheels” due to the fact that I was slow, and “Meals” due to the fact that I liked to eat—often.
Thereafter, my nickname was shortened to Meals by a few of my ruthless, cutthroat teammates.
One game the coach put me in the outfield. Hey, it was either me or the guy using the walker.
Good choice.
An opponent who had arms the size of my legs crushed the ball. Unfortunately, I must have had a GPS tracker in my sweats because the stupid ball was headed right at me.
Or was it?
I could’ve turned around and sprinted toward the fence. I mean, I should’ve turned around and sprinted for the fence. Instead, I started slowly backpedaling; in a way, I must have resembled one of the dancers from the Lawrence Welk Show.
I glanced up in time to notice that the ball was moving much faster forward than I was backward.
I threw myself into overdrive and slowly quickened the pace.
Bad move on my part. Actually, it was a “Bad News Bears” move on my part.
While running backward, I shifted from third to fourth gear and accidentally crossed my left foot over my right. Not only did I cross my feet, but I also happened to hook them together.
Oh no! Someone had tied my shoelaces together while I was watching the batter take his swing.
With my feet crossed, I had nowhere to go but down.
Fast.
Wham!
“Oof.”
My head hit the ground before the ball did, and I thought for certain I’d knocked myself out. Heh. What did I know? I thought I could run backward, too.
My noggin hit the dry outfield grass so hard that it bounced straight up, and with that view I could see the slugger circling the bases.
At this time, Wheels came hustling over, picked up the ball, and gunned it to third.
“Slugger” was busy rounding third and heading home when his third base coach saw Wheels unload the missile from the outfield.
“Get back!”, shouted the third base coach.
It was too, too late.
By the time “Slugger” retraced his steps, the ball had beaten him back to the bag and our third baseman, “E-5” Ed Pearce, tagged him out.
Whoo-hoo!
As for me, I was still lying there in deep left-center flat on my back, examining cloud formations with a Flintstone-type lump poking out the back of my noggin.
“You okay, Mr. Ehm?”
I looked up, and there stood the hero of the game—Bryan.
“Yea, I’m good.”
He helped me up, and I staggered back to our bench.
“Hey, nice wheels, Meals.” Snicker.
The comments from my teammates began and never seemed to end.
It was cutting, it was brutal, and I loved every minute of it.
