It's All About the Game

Prompt: Write a story about a moment of defeat. (with two rivals coming together)

It’s All About the Game

The summer of 1969 came alive for many of us.   The popular song “Summer of 69” by Bryan Adams became our mantra although we never understood what it really meant.  Events like the moon landing by the Apollo astronauts and the throngs of thousands gathering at the Woodstock Music Festival riveted our attention. Some people soared at supersonic speeds on the Concorde jet. Despite these positive things, sadness prevailed in 1969. The Vietnam war escalated in its ferocity. The Stonewall riots, the Tate-LaBianca Murders, and various airline crashes captured the headlines.

But in my own little world there would be a clash of the Titans, and the rest of the world would seem far away. I am about to tell you about the greatest baseball story of all times (for myself anyway). Did it happen on the Field of Dreams? No, not by a long shot. Casual observers would call it a sandlot behind the public school nestled in a Midwestern neighborhood. It was the greatest story, however, for the twelve boys and girls that played together that summer. I happened to be one of them. An incredibly intense rivalry developed surpassing even the intense competitiveness between the Chicago Cubs and New York Mets during 1969 major league season.

Baseball aficionados may remember that the Cubs held a sizable lead against the Mets with only weeks left to play. The Cubs held a 9.5 game lead over the Mets only to plummet in the standings, losing two critical games to them plus fifteen other games.  Some blame it on the Mets (those dirty rats) unleashing a black cat at Shea Stadium to curse the Cubs. There was intense animosity between Cub and Met fans. Just imagine that same amount of angst between our two teams consisting each of five boys and one girl.  

This sports saga came to be one night from the loudmouth bursts bellowed from a few of us during the kick-off summer block party. Block parties were not a new thing but this year it was different. My friends and I had turned fourteen and had just graduated junior high. We considered ourselves big stuff and were ready to take on the world (at least in baseball). My friends and I lived on Noble Lane. That night at the party a few other graduated eight graders heard our boasting. They lived on the far end of the neighborhood on Prickly Street. It was an affluent block with properly trimmed lawns and white picket fences. They never wanted to associate with us, even though we all attended the same school. We just figured they were snobbish, rude, and lazy.

A gnarly looking dude named Drake decided to quickly gather up a team from Prickly Street during the party. Since I seemed to be bellowing the loudest about our greatness, he challenged me directly to a “Sandlot Championship Series.” Drake said, “so you think you have the best sandlot team around, butter-cakes?” I cringed when he said butter-cakes. “My name is Buddy. But let us not revert to name calling, dunder head. Whoever wins the best of 5 series is the champion with bragging rights.” Drake chortled, “Yeah, let’s do it. But we need more at stake than bragging rights. The winning team gets the equivalent of a month’s lunch money from each player on the losing team.” I gulped saying “Wow, that’s a lot of milk money, even for a bonehead like yourself.” He looked at me with piercing eyes and then we fist bumped in acceptance.  As a passing insult, he hurled at me, “you are no buddy of mine, loser.”

My good friend Rufus was quick to jump in and accept the challenge. I persuaded my other friends with a little promise of swimming in my backyard pool with sodas and cookies. I still had to work on convincing my parents that this was an extended graduation party.  My team mates were: Rufus (aka Goofus because he goofed up a lot, mostly due to his lack of coordination), Wilbur, Freddie, Stubby, Penny and myself, Buddy.  The thugs (I mean the Pricky boys) were Drake, Axel, Archer, Blade, Diesel, and their girl Bertha. A frightening sort. You would have never guessed they lived just a few blocks away. 

We agreed that the series would begin in a week after the July fourth weekend.  It was amazing to see how fast word traveled around the neighborhood. The parents of both teams caught wind of it. Parents being parents naturally took up sides. I was awed, impressed, and perhaps frightened how much resentment the parents displayed in front of us.  Apparently, the parents were using this series as a way to release their repressed anger they harbored over the years at their neighbors. Lots of vicious rumors circulated around the neighborhood. I began to question my audacity about my baseball prowess, let alone my team’s abilities. If we were going to gain any respect from our parents we had to make it a good fight. Better yet, we had to win the series.

The week finally arrived.  When the Pricky Street team arrived, they were garbed in actual jerseys and pinstripe pants. They called themselves the Prickly Pricks. It happened that Drake’s dad owned a sporting goods store in town. Seeing their team’s name made me nauseous. I acquiesced that First Amendment rights must allow for such a thing. We, on the other hand wore our usual ripped blue jeans, cotton shirts of all colors donated from my dad. On the front it said “Buddy’s Busters.” On the back he advertised his pharmacy “Al’s Drugstore Den busting drug prices.” Each of us wore generic baseball caps.

Since the teams had only six team members the field alignment positions were pitcher, catcher, first base, short stop, left field, right field.  That forced first base and short stop to double up on their positions. For Buddy’s Busters, the assignments were Wilbur as pitcher, Rufus catching, Freddie in left field, Penny in right field, Stubby at third and myself at first base.

The assignments for the Prickly Pricks really did not matter because they all looked fierce and intimidating at their positions including Bertha who ended up as catcher. Both teams agreed to play six innings unless the score was tied after six. Umping was done by two high school baseball players outside our neighborhood. We alternated on each game for home field advantage beginning with the Busters having the first home field.

The first game was a no-brainer. We held them close losing 24 to 0. I can say with pride we ended up having a total of two hits; one by me and one by Penny.  We heard that Drake’s team began their celebratory feasting at the local pizzeria that night. Contemptuously, I could only hope the pizzas were loaded with salmonella.

So with the first game in the books, our parents on the Buddy’s Busters team decided to give us their two cents worth whether we wanted it or not. I spoke up interjecting, “Dad, the next game is tomorrow. What can we possibly do differently to make us victorious?” He said nonchalantly, “hit the ball and pray like the dickens it goes somewhere.” Stubby’s dad said, “pray that the pitcher can’t see home plate and take more walks.” Freddie’s dad said, “yea, while you are praying, yell and scream at them so they can’t hear themselves and each other.”  Rufus’ mom spoke up saying “Pray for your enemies. Give them food and drink when they are thirsty and hungry during the game.”  Oh, I get it, as I thought to myself. We make them so full they cannot move and field their positions. But later I found that was not at all what she intended. She was quoting Proverbs 25:21-22.

How quickly the night turned into the next day.  I rallied my team. I gave them a Yogi Berra quote: “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over” along with a bunch of other gushy stuff. Well, something I said must have made a difference because we won that second game 2 to 1. I was incredulous that we scored two runs, one on a bases loaded walk; the other was a forced run from Rufus getting knocked on the head by a pitch. Even more amazing, they only could score one run against us. I do owe Stubby’s dad some credit for his insightful suggestion.

We had our opponents on the ropes because after the game Drake came up to me snarling. He venomously said “Watch your back butter-cakes. I am coming for you.” Unfortunately, I must have let my fear of Drake’s intimidation carry over to the rest of the team. That third game ended in a score of 29 to 0.  I wish I had more highlights to share, but it sadly would only involve the Pricks.

Given my position as captain of team, I needed to rally the troops once again for game four.  I quoted Al Spalding, “Baseball is a man maker.”  Penny took offense. And then in an insightful brain burp, I quoted Leo Durocher. “There are only five things you can do in baseball – run, throw, catch, hit, and hit with power.”   I added, “we need to do all these things NOW!” I have to say that they listened! We scored five runs on a flurry of hits, walks, and hit by pitches. Rufus was our hero getting a timely hit, a walk, and a bop on the head from the pitcher, again. The game ended 5 to 4. I got to thinking maybe if I were a bit older, I could run for President since people actually seem to listen to me!

We were on the verge of securing the Championship. Everyone on the team could feel it, taste it. The day of the final game arrived.  Drake was pitching for the Prickly Pricks. His team growled at us when we  first took the field in the first inning. Penny was pitching for us. Incredibly the game was deadlocked at zero to zero.  The tension was heavy. Even the moms, dads, and spectators on the side lines were riveted on the game. Muted cheers would occasionally crop up. The game was in the bottom of the sixth inning.  Rufus gave himself up to be hit by a pitch, again on the ‘noggin.’  After a couple of wild pitches, Rufus ended up on third base. Penny was at the plate. She hit the ball hard down the right field line.  We were going to win! Rufus made a motion toward home plate to score the winning run.  Only when he was halfway toward home plate, he collapsed onto the ground face forward. He lay prone on the third base line not moving. My first thought was Rufus this was no time to be a Goofus. Drake ended up receiving the ball from the outfielder and tagged him out.

Rufus still lay prone, motionless. I turned him onto his back. Rufus was not breathing. The umps tried to resuscitate him. He still lay motionless with no visible signs of breathing. I screamed “Call an ambulance! Someone please call 911!” It seemed like an eternity when the fire department ambulance and police arrived on the scene. Rufus was transported to the local hospital. We had no idea about his condition.

Both teams gathered at the pitcher’s mound. It was a unanimous decision to suspend play. There would be no champion crowned for the Sandlot Championship Series. A small contingent from both teams decided to go to the hospital.  I could tell Drake was deeply moved as most of us were. Once we arrived, we stormed the emergency desk for information. We saw Rufus’ parents visibly shaken, crying and praying. The doctor had just finished his assessment. The good news was that Rufus was alive, but he sustained significant injuries to parts of his upper brain. Rufus’ dad said he will be a quadriplegic for the rest of his life. According to the doctor, a series of traumas occurred in the cortex responsible for movement. It had been repeated several times in different areas.

When we heard this news, the group gasped. Tears welled up in everyone’s’ eyes. We prayed for Rufus, but also for healing of our relationships. Bertha sobbed uncontrollably. I later found out that she had developed a crush on Rufus. It was some time before the group could gather themselves to head home.

Later that evening, the twelve of us agreed to meet at the sandlot field.  The series was a loss. A casualty was sustained. How could we retrieve honor for someone who had given himself up for the game? Rufus lost more than the game. No longer would he be able to play with no arms and no legs. How could we honor the game and honor Rufus? It was imperative we lay aside all our differences and started acting like a real, caring neighborhood. Drake, Axel, Archer, Blade, Diesel, Bertha, Wilbur, Freddie, Penny, Stubby and myself hugged, apologized, and started the process of becoming friends.  Deep friends.

The next day I went to see Rufus. He had regained consciousness. I told him how much he meant to our team. I told him that we reconciled our differences with our nemeses on Prickly Street.  Even all of the parents were acting more responsibly to everyone in the neighborhood. I also told him to expect an outpouring of kindness from the neighborhood, especially Bertha.  “Everyone wants to help you.  You gave up yourself in an unselfish way to win for us, my dear friend.” Then I asked him, “Why Rufus? Why did you let yourself get hit? And, why on top of the head?”

He smiled saying “I had to be sure I got hit. I did not think I would feel it.” And then with a big smile he added “It’s All About the Game.”

Fifty-five years have passed since that week in July. We never had another “Sandlot Championship Series.” To this day the Prickly Street and Noble Lane teams remain good friends even though many of us have moved to different parts of the country.  I remained in the neighborhood to share my amazing story to new folks moving here.  I never became President, but Rufus married Bertha and became an ordained minister. He now shares to his congregation and anyone who would listen about even bigger life event.  Rufus continues to offer up his life and urges others to do the same for a holy life.  

In the book of Romans, Rufus exclaims, “So here is what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Do not become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You will be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.” (Romans 12:-1-2, Message)

It really is all about the Game, the Game of Life.

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com

(Scripture quoted from the MESSAGE Bible)