[6/09/05]

In 1986, yours truly earned a spot on the Peekskill Lapolla Little League All-Star baseball team. It didn’t matter that there were only six teams in the league, that it was named after my godparents or that my dad was president of the league. I earned that spot. Until, of course, I reached the age of understanding politics.

I loved the game, had desire to win and enough talent to fill a Coca-Cola bottle.

Unfortunately, I enjoyed the postgame trips to Carvel for ice cream sandwiches way too much.

My all-star career statistics read like this: Three at bats, nine pitches, three dejected walks back to the dugout.

I did pitch 2/3 of an inning, though, and allowed the only home run ever to hit the apartment complex beyond right field.

Ah, the memories.

After Little League, I dropped the bat and glove and picked up the pen and pad, forever leaving my big-league dreams in a cardboard box in the laundry room.

But now, the Vicksburg Parks and Recreation Department has organized an adult baseball league. A bunch of out-of-shape has-beens taking to the field with a secret stash of Ben Gay hidden in their caps, the Gatorade supplanted with Ensure.

Surely a Little League all-star could play against these aging wonders, huh?

Well, I dug out the ol’ ball glove and baseballs and began a strenuous baseball training regimen with the only family member worse at baseball than me – my brother Dan.

His return throws worked on my mobility. I had three choices: either catch his errant tosses, crash through the hedges or tumble onto Cherry Street, dodging cars in a vain attempt to secure the rawhide. It’s amazing to me that with such bad aim, he somehow always knew exactly the spot in the yard where the dog did her business.

After five catches, the now out-of-breath former all-star wanted to fire a few in. The last pitch I threw, the ball hasn’t landed yet, so certainly I was up for some redemption.

The first pitch fell mere feet in front of my catcher, who refused to get into a crouch. The pain shot up my arm like a cannon ball. “Just threw out the ol’ rotator cuff,” I howled.

Three fastballs right down the middle followed. I swear if a batter stood at home plate, he would have hit that last one somewhere between the Mississippi River and Monroe.

“Here comes the curve,” I said before snapping my wrist like a pencil. The pitch sailed 10-feet wide and under the porch.

A futile search for the errant baseball commenced as the pain in my right arm subsided so slightly by the dog’s claws in my back.

Seconds later, the workout ended. The ball was lost and there was no way I was going to risk more injuries by swinging a bat.

Nineteen years after striking out through my all-star career, I struck out again. Another run to the all-stars is out of the question.

Unless, of course, somehow I am related to league organizer Joe Graves and he can pull a few strings to get me on his all-star team.