HIGH SCHOOL SHOWDOWN

1961

     The showdown with Anaheim for the league championship at LaPalma Park was a huge Orange County event. The O.C. Register sports page ran a feature story on both teams with pictures up front. The stadium was packed with parents, boosters, students and scouts and fans interested in both teams. There was a special feeling of excitement in the air of a big game, where your ass was on the line and you were tested before a sold-out crowd.

     As Stephenson warmed up, I considered dragging a bunt on him, especially since their thirdbaseman played me deep. When I just got on base it unnerved him, because I knew his move to first and took liberties on the base paths that might embarrass him. I felt base running, more than any aspect of the game, defined a ball player, and that scouts often missed out in judging a player only by size, power, arm, and straightway speed instead of instinct and instant acceleration—my fortes. I felt my instincts were a weapon enabling me to single-handedly intimidate and disrupt a team, especially in a close game, where my daring base running and taunting inspired my team mates and excited the fans, and that every eye was on me when I got on base.

     But bunting Stephenson implied I couldn’t HIT him. Anaheim scored 3 runs on us in the first inning. When I came up to the plate there was nobody on and two outs. I took a fastball on the outside corner and lashed it into right field for a single and rounded first hard, skidded to a stop, staring at Jerry, who stared back. I took a ridiculous lead, bluffed a steal, drew several pick off throws; then stole second easily. But he struck out Angus.

     That afternoon I got two hits off Stephenson and ripped two other pitches right at somebody. We came back to go ahead 4-3, but ended up losing 5-4. Stephenson, arm-weary from carrying his team all season, went all the way and had just enough to beat us—the best hitting team in the league. After the game Jerry and I visited. Both our teams finished with brilliant records of over 20 wins and were going to the playoffs as favorites. Our Dads stood nearby conversing as folks filed out. Several young kids sought and got our autographs. Jerry was contemplating signing a big bonus with the Red Sox back in Boston. He suggested I play Legion and Connie Mack this summer and build up more of a reputation and sign the following year. After we parted, Dawn Meadows tried to pigeon-hole me, and I was squeamish and gruff.

     I bridled at the conformity of kids like us coupling up and preparing for a future as husband/wife at such an early age when we had no clue as to what we were doing. I only wanted to fuck some of the girls Angus was fucking. I was embarrassed by my warm feelings for a girl and feeling also that their knowledge of this gave them the upper hand. I had the feeling Dawn was luring me, laying a trap, and I was unable to cope with my increasing need to be with her. Angus was right—I had a crush on a sweet girl who was good only for one thing—marrying, having kids, and facing a world of prediction and conformity. So I shook her off, stood by myself as Bill Lentini, my puppy-dog friendly and excitable American Legion coach approached me, grinning like a child, shaking my hand with genuine enthusiasm.

     “I know you lost the game, Tiger, but you were magnificent today and you been magnificent all year. Nobody attacks the game like you do. You play with a vengeance. The game is yours. You’re exciting. Nothing can stop you now. I can’t wait ‘til Legion season. You got it all, kid.”

      I knew Bill believed everything he said. I knew he was going to be a birddog for the White Sox. Still, I couldn’t quite believe him. When I ate dinner that night, Dad said, “You need a haircut. Your hair sticks out of your cap. It doesn’t look good. It’s bush. All that stuff matters to scouts.”

      “Yeh yeh,” I muttered derisively. No way I was going to get a haircut when one of Angus’s girls said she liked it.

     (Next Sunday installment: The Big Dago—Joe DiMaggio)