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After starting in Tee-Ball at 5 years old, I played for 9 straight years, right through Little League to age 14.

My father acted as Head Coach for my last two years, having played Minor League ball himself (so he claims to have almost been drafted by the Kansas City Royals, which I still don't know but like to believe in the nostalgia and memory of the motivation it served.)

Our small team on Mather Air Force Base (circa 1985) was known as the A's. This was due to the fact that we weren't too far from Oakland, and many of the kids looked up to the players of the day then from that very team, or were from Oakland themselves.

As truth would have it, our team was something of an anomaly. We lead in first place the whole season, and only lost two games (to the same team, the Astros); and boy, were they close ones. Very high scoring. It wasn't uncommon for our games to be called by the end of the 4th for the 10-Run Rule. Good times.

By the time our season ended, we had a trophy presentation and a few newspaper clippings of our team's photos, including one of me tagging out one of the Astros in our rivalry games. Raymond Singleton at second base... still remember the play to this day.

As a reward for such an outstanding season, my father/coach and our assistant coach decided to surprise us with an actual trip to a real Oakland A's baseball game. We couldn't believe it! They chartered a bus, setup a 1-day pass and got release letters, and before you knew it, I was witnessing my first Big League game...

The size of the stadium took me by surprise, and I didn't know what to think at first. It occurred to me I might get lost, so I stayed close to the team just in case. The smell of the hot dogs and mustard and peanuts and crackerjacks whiffed throughout the air like an open country should feel, and I'll never forget the red-vine licorice rope that was about as tall as our catcher.

That day was a God-send. We were introduced to "mound-ball"; one of our team-mates started us betting a single peanut into a bag for one person to hold. To win the bag, when the inning was over, if the ball (when tossed out to the mound) landed and actually stayed on the dirt (grass didn't count), he won the bag of peanuts. If the ball rolled off, was thrown to another player, or taken by the umpire, another peanut was added and the bag was passed to the next team-mate, in order. I remember several innings going by without anyone winning, and I was attempting to count (in my head) the approximate number of total peanuts since I was now holding the bag. As the final out was up at the plate, I was too deep in thought to notice the fly-tip foul into the bleachers near the backstop, heading right for our direction. As the commotion came to a head; the ball whacked me right on the top of mine.

I instinctively pulled downward at the exact moment it hit, as the realization of the moment came when everyone jumped with their gloves in their hands.

While we looked for the ball in what felt like eternity, my father (who was sitting in the row in front of us with our asst. coach) stood and asked how my head felt. I told him it was 'pretty sore', and rubbed it slightly.

With a coy smile, he tossed up the ball and caught it real fast, placing it in my glove (that I still wasn't wearing). He said to me, "Is it STILL pretty sore?", and my eyes began to tear. He figured since I took the punishment to 'slow it down for him to get', that I could keep it as a reminder to always be ready for those "pop-ups".

I haven't forgotten yet.

Learn more about this author, Jeff Bolz.
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