Little Guy

Little Guy

Ralph Barhydt

“C’mon Aaron, give the kid a chance. He’s little but I seen him run and there is no one faster on this team.”

“Look Matt, I just don’t like shrimps. The kid is a shrimp. He’ll get hurt, his parents will be a problem and he will always be whining about something. Plus, frankly, I just don’t like little people. They are worse than blacks and blacks are bad enough, although that one boy can sure throw the ball.”

“Aaron, man, you are way out of line. This is little league baseball. These kids are in the seventh grade and deserve fair treatment. You really shouldn’t bring those kind of biases here.”

“Well, well. Aren’t we the noble young coach. Maybe you should get a job working for the Short Pukes of America. Now that I think of it, maybe you are not a good fit for this coaching position. I hear that John Snyder over with the Cardinals is a real fuckin’ pissant. I hear he likes momma’s boys.”

“Aaron, I don’t think this kid is a momma’s boy. He’s tough, he can hit, he can throw, he steals more bases that the whole team in total. He can’t hit for power but he hits a lot and he knows how to place his hits. It’s actually amazing what this kid can do.”

“Matt, he is a shrimp. I don’t care if he hits 1000. He is not going to make my team. If you don’t like that, go somewhere else. Didn’t you see him strike out Tuesday?”

“Good god, Aaron that is the only time we have seen him strike out and he got two bad calls. Your beloved Daniel has struck out several times and hit one long ball. You are an asshole.”

“Roger! Get over here!”

Matt walked away from Aaron and put his arm around Roger. “Hey, man, how you doin’?”

“Great boss, playing the game I love, beautiful day, hanging with you, what else could I ask for?”

“How’s your hitting going, Roger?”

“Pretty good. I figure I can hit over .400, but I don’t have a long ball yet. That’ll come when I get a little bigger. For now, I am go focused on timing, which is everything. Plus, I work on “hittin’ them where they ain’t. I really do Matt.”

“I know, I’ve see you. So, I know you like it here, but I am moving to the Cardinals. I haven’t talked with John Snyder yet, but I am sure that he would welcome you. Would you like to come with me?”

“Aargh. I love the Dodgers, but, yes, I really want to play for you. I am happy that you even asked me. When do we go?”

Matt replied, “Me tomorrow, you Friday. OK?”

“Do I stay here until then?’

“No. Just come to the Cardinals on Friday at 4:00”

“Yes, sir!”

“Roger—Johnson is going to squash you like a bug.”

“He will never catch me sir, not on the longest day. All that weight makes him slower than an ox. He might stop Junior at the line, but he will never ever get his hands on me. The only guy I even think about is Gary Kennedy, that safety. He is quick and smart, but I can still beat him.”

“What did I tell you, Roger? Johnson broke your arm huh?”

Roger’s dad was on the verge of a catatonic fit. “What the hell do you expect Coach? You ran him right into the line. A hundred twenty pound outside runner and you ran him right up the middle. You son of a bitch. You wanted him to get hurt. I’ll bet you put Johnson up to it.”

“That’s enough. Get out of here Mr. Hansen and take your little boy with you.”

Next day, Stan Hansen took his boy across town to South High School. “Let’s go see Coach Barnes, Roger. If that works out, we will enroll you in South.”

“Mr. Hansen, I have seen your boy play baseball and football. He is small, no doubt, but he is fast and quick, smart and brave. I would be pleased to have him try out for our team if you can get him transferred.

Stan Hansen got his boy into the South High School and he was a star for three years playing football and basketball. Along the way, he picked up a buddy, Allen Carlton, and they developed a deep friendship playing golf. Roger was a good student and graduated with honors.

“It gives me great pleasure as athletic director of South High School to announce the winner of the Outstanding Athlete award, especially this year. This year’s winner is the shortest boy on the football and basketball teams, a true athlete, born leader and a young man who has set or reset almost every school record and many state records in these two sports—give it up for Roger Hansen.”

“Dad, why did Mr. Scott have to mention my being the shortest boy around? He didn’t need to emphasize that. Everybody puts me in a box, calls me 'short' and doesn't see what I can do. What? Do you think that has anything to do with why I have received so few college offers? I don’t have single offer from a top D1 school in either sport. The best, and almost the only offer I have is from University of Houston in football. Good school, good program, but no Texas or Oklahoma or Alabama. I thought sure I would get an offer from Coach Carroll at USC, but, no, nothing, nada. No question. I am short, but I only got hurt once in high school and I set so many records. Don’t these coaches see that? I can sort of understand the pros looking the other way, but I know I can play at any college in the country.” Roger was starting to tear up. Stan could hardly keep from crying himself. He had watched his son grow into a fantastic athlete along with being a good student. He had watched Roger take so much abuse from coaches and players and even some teachers and administrators. It was painful to watch and was turning bitter over the years. Now that Roger was ready for college, there should have been many top tier schools beating down the door to recruit him. There were none.

“Roger, next week you go to see the Houston coach. Make the most of it. Houston is a good school and maybe you can help lift their program up a notch or two. Call Allen and let’s go play a round of golf. Take your mind off this crap.” Roger went to bed and cried himself to sleep.

The University of Houston was Roger’s home for the next four years. He suffered through a lot of torment and hazing his freshman year but he stood up to it. By the end of his freshman year, most of the Houston players were big supporters and believers in what he could do. He started setting rushing and passing records in his sophomore year and became not only an idol on the team but second team All American his senior year. Still, he felt that he should have been first team All American. He led the nation in passing. But sportswriters, other coaches and players always, always brought up his size. On the side, he and Allen had become leading golfers in the NCAA.

“Fuck football, Roger. You really have a touch on the fairway. Really, man. You are a lot better than me and I am good. In fact, I see you as the best player in college even though you didn’t win the NCAA, just a streak of bad lack. You hit the ball a mile and you are still short. But being short isn’t going to take that away from you. Let’s try to get on the pro-tour. You can have a lot of fun, meet a lot of women and make some money.

Roger graduated from Houston, won a few secondary honors, was transferred from quarterback to wide receiver due to a tall competitor and got absolutely no calls from the pros. He and Allen worked the lesser tournaments when they could and chugged along for a few years after graduation until they got their PGA cards and then started on the tour. Year in year out, Roger did well on the tour and made a good income. He won an occasional low level tournament and managed to get into the big tournaments like the Masters, the Open, Pebble Beach, the British Open but never finished better than ninth.

At the age of 36, he was still playing and had crafted a strong career for himself. The media had dubbed him “the little guy” and when he had a good round, they would make a big deal out of it. It just hung on Roger and had become a sad, but integral part of his life. His friend Allen had had a good, but short run, lived nearby and still played golf a lot with Roger. “Get it together and win a couple of bigs. Roger, you still have it in you and start brushing off this “little guy” crap by winning the British Open next week. Really. Swear to god. Don’t give up man.”

So Roger was off to England and Royal Liverpool. He suffered from the usual jokes and slanders as he went out to the first tee. He didn’t pay attention to any of them and hammered his first drive quite far down the fairway. Off to a good start. At the end of the day, Roger found himself in the clubhouse and the center of attention. A lot of people were jabbing him about “little guy,” but most were buzzing about him being the tournament leader at the end of the first day. People were in shock, but excited at the novelty of the little guy in the lead. Plus, wasn’t he a little old for this? He will fall out tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and back out on the course, Roger was staying in the lead and started picking up detractors. There was a local player in the tournament who was a star on the tour who had an enormous following and support. Roger was hearing slurs and insults. It was at best unsportsmanlike and some of the comments were ugly. This was something he had faced almost all his life so he just carried on and at the end of the second day, he was still in the lead. That did not sit well with many of the locals. Over drinks that evening, Roger started getting some seriously bad remarks. He retired early.

The third day arrived with a bit of weather, mostly wind. Roger teed off with his typically outstanding first drive and off they all went. He had a big following now, one the biggest he had ever had. “Shank it, Roger,” one loudmouth had taken up yelling when Roger swung and while the marshalls had a chat with that guy, here and there, others were sounding off. Then between the green and tee, some guy walked up to him and whispered a couple of obscenities in his ear. Roger started to hear more and more criticism and he began to feel the pressure, the hostility. Then he thought, “I remember this, it’s been a long time since I have been treated like this. ‘Little guy,’ huh? And, a lot worse. Well, I have to say that it almost makes me feel comfortable. 

At the end of that day, Roger was still in the first place, the local hero was hot on his heels in second and the fans were really restless. The talking heads on TV were having a field day taking bets with each other and viewers as to which hole Roger would collapse on. Roger watched that on TV and started wondering himself. But, when he went to bed, he was ready and relaxed. It all just felt so natural to him.

Final round. Roger strolled out to the the first tee and more people than had ever come to watch him play. He looked at the crowd and suddenly felt a great deal of pride. There were still catcalls and insults, but there was amazing enthusiasm and cheering for him. If anything, that made him more nervous, the bad stuff making him more curious. He started the final round, good shot after good shot until a little over halfway. His detractors and the supporters of the local hero were getting rambunctious and angry. On the next tee, Roger pushed his drive way off the fairway into the deep grouse. He found the ball, had to take a drop with penalty strokes and finished that hole with a double bogey. Everybody was excited as they sensed a panic, a breakdown and the end of this foreign, “little guy” threat. Except it did not happen.

Roger was still calm, relaxed and confident.  He was just playing golf. He was about to win like the most natural thing in the world and he could see his friend Allen jumping up and down and waving from time to time. He birdied the next hole. He birdied the next hole, two in a row and the crowd simply swung to his side. The roar of people yelling his name was almost overwhelming. He fought the urge to panic and he won. 

Third and twenty, league championship game, Houston down by 3 on their own 41 yard line, 10 seconds left in the game. Standing in the huddle, a vast calm settled on Roger. My turn. He called a quarter back draw play and his teammates were skeptical. “You sure man?”

“On three. Let’s go.” The line settled in place. “Hut, hut, hut,” the ball snapped into Roger’s hands. He was off for a 59 yard game winning touchdown. He felt it then and felt it when he stepped to the 18^th tee. He felt every jog, jig, and juke of that run. He was laughing when he teed up and he blasted the ball way down the fairway. 

As he walked to the next shot, he thought about what was happening. “Damn, I’m 36 and I have never won a major. Is disaster going to strike? Am I going to lose my ball then hit the next one in the rough. It would take at least a triple bogey to lose. Am I going to fall apart?” Roger started to contemplate all the bad things that could happen when he got to the ball. As he approached the ball, pulled his club out the bag and addressed the ball, another calm settled over him. That touchdown run had been as a sophomore. The following year, a tall hot shot quarterback came in and bounced Roger. The other guy was just so tall, Roger was just so short. Roger switched to wide receiver. In the next year’s championship game, Roger caught three touchdown passes from the tall dude and won the game with his running. It just felt right and Roger felt that whole experience as he reached back for his swing. The ball ended up 10 feet from the cup.

 Nobody was going to catch him. When he walked onto the green for last hole, the last put, the noise of the crowd was like a tumultuous, atomic thunderstorm. There were no detractors. Allen broke through the barriers and ran out to hug him. He turned to throw his ball to the crowd but couldn’t do it. He had to keep that ball. He made a fake throw and the crowd went nuts trying to get ball.

“How about a beer, big guy?” said Allen.