Matt Mitchell

Matt Mitchell

From time to time through the years, I have met with my high school classmates of sixty years ago and, of course, we reminisce about the old days. “Do you remember when we ….” “Do you ever think about the time we ….” I'm always amazed at how we recall things differently, how one person remembers an event vividly, but another has no memory of it whatsoever. Or sometimes we just have the facts confused.

“You had a date with Sally Johnson, at the prom.”

“No, Emily Crawford was my date. Sally was Walter's date.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Sometimes, I remember something that happened in another person's life that I thought was very important for them and it always jumps to my mind when I think of that person, but that person doesn't remember the event at all. What seemed to make the occurrence seem so important that I have it indelibly associated with that person? And why is it so unimportant to them that they let it totally slip away.

“What about the time you stole the coach's cap and his head got sunburned during football practice? I would never have done that.”

“What are you talking about. I didn't do that.”

Why do certain memories in our past seem important to us and we remember every detail? Why do we forget things we have done that others recall in detail?

. . . . .

I remember Matt Mitchell. He was in my high school class in the 50's. He was average height but so skinny that his clothes looked as if they were borrowed from a larger boy's closet. With a head too large head was for his frail body, he could have been the model for the bobble head dolls so popular today. He was awkward in his movements and in his interaction with others. His conversation was always short and choppy, never knowing exactly what to say or how to initiate a conversation. He simply lacked confidence. Matt was pleasant enough and never got into trouble, but he never did anything outstanding, something that would make you remember him. There was nothing remarkable about him. He blended into the crowd and simply disappeared. There were ninety students in my class and I honestly don't remember most of them, but I do remember Matt Mitchell sixty years later. I remember him for one single instance, one shining moment in a lifetime. It happened on a baseball field.

In 1951, I was playing baseball in the Babe Ruth League for 13 to 15 year old age group, a step above Little League. There were not as many players and not as many teams as Little League because some of the Little Leaguers had decided they no longer wanted to play baseball or that they just weren't good enough to compete. We didn't have full uniforms, just nylon shirts with the sponsor's name on the front and baseball caps. The sponsors were all local businesses: Diggs Grocery, Tucker Paints, Goodwin's Hardware, Simpson's Ford, etc.

My father convinced his civic club to sponsor a team and he agreed to be the manager. He only did it so that there would be one more team in the league and, of course, I was on his team. My father didn't know anything about baseball. He wasn't athletic and had probably never played in his life. He let one of the fifteen year old boys conduct practices and he taught us what he knew about the game. He even set the line-ups. Dad attended every game though he was only a figurehead.

Matt Mitchell was on my team. He wanted to play and no one was refused. Each team had barely enough players to take the field and there was an unwritten rule that everyone got to play in every game. Matt wasn't good and he knew it, but he wanted to be part of the group. We all rotated positions trying to find the best combination of players and positions. I played outfield, and first base, and occasionally, got to pitch. Josh, the fifteen year old coach, played catcher and he could throw the ball back to me on the mound faster than I could deliver my fastball. I wasn't fast, but I could find the plate. Matt always played right field and batted ninth, both reserved for the worst player on the team.

We did pretty well that year, though I don't remember if we won a trophy, (They only gave trophies to the winners back then), but I do remember one moment in one game, vividly. We had a man on base and Matt was at bat. Matt's batting average was .000. He had not had a single hit all year. He wasn't powerful, nor was he fleet of foot. One of the guys used to say, “Matt's fast. He just runs too long in one place.” Most of his at bats were strike outs, and when he connected with the ball, it never got out of the infield. He was a sure out, but we always tried to pretend this wasn't true. “Come on, Matt. You can do it” we shouted. “Get a hit , Matt.” That day, Matt was given the signal to bunt, hoping to advance the runner to second base. He pushed a bunt down the first base line and started toward the bag. The pitcher rushed over to scoop up the ball and toss it to the first baseman for the out. But the ball was curving toward the foul line so he just stopped and let it roll. Matt ran by the pitcher who continued to watch the ball. Suddenly, the ball hit a pebbly or clod of dirt and stopped dead, short of the foul line. Fair ball! The pitcher rushed to pick it up. Too late! Matt had a hit! His first hit! Our bench erupted. We yelled and clapped and jumped to our feet. Matt beamed! I've never seen a grin that big or someone so excited. To this day, I can still see him standing on first base looking at our bench with that big, happy smile.

I don't remember the rest of the game. I don't remember the score or who pitched or my times at bat or any spectacular plays. But I remember that one moment. That one time at bat when Matt Mitchell got a hit, his first and only hit of the season. That singular moment was probably the highlight of his entire baseball career. And I remember it.

I wonder if Matt does? I wonder if he remembers me?