St. Catherine's vs. St. Edwards CBBL 1963

By the time I reached the age of reason I knew that Willie Mays was god. By the time I reached twelve years of age I was the CBBL (Catholic Boys Baseball League) home run king. For every home run I hit I would win a haircut at Tony Mazzio's barbershop. The summer of 1962 I had won twelve hair cuts.

By the summer of eighth grade I was 5'11" tall and ten pounds heavier. I knew that this summer I could only get better. Maybe ten additional haircuts by the end of summer. What I failed to understand then was the growth spurt was merely a symptom of much more complicated changes. And there was nothing more complicated and glorious than my new found interest in girls. For the first time I found myself looking down Maureen Tenner's blouse as she bent down at her desk. For the first time I began inviting the girls in my class over to swim in the new pool we built in our backyard. Something was changing in me. My stomach was tied in knots and I was busting out all over, so to speak. It was the summer of 1963.

I would hang out at Shamel Park in the afternoon and go watch or play baseball at Evans Park after dinner. The park was surrounded to the south by pepper trees and to the north by the silhouette of mysterious Mt. Rubidoux. The games would begin at twilight, a magical time in California. As the sun went down the colors swirled and convulsed over the outfield unevenly. The tall palm trees and the light poles in the distance contrasted almost violently with the increasingly dark, cobalt sky. It was so very surreal that it looked like we had touched another dimension. When the warm Santa Anas blew in off the desert it became absolutely frightening. It was the starkest and most eerily beautiful scene I remember in my youth. Later in high school, when I fell into a depression, the most difficult time of the day was during the sunsets when their beauty only heightened my despair. That time still haunts me as I grow older. The very thing that I loved so much, touched my deepest sadness.

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The shifting of my leg didn't help change the problem. I had been watching American Bandstand waiting to leave for my baseball game. And now there was something wrong. It was swollen and it wouldn't return to normal size. I was twelve years old and I didn't even know why it was happening. But there was even a bigger dilemma. In thirty minutes I would have to leave the house and go play baseball. My team, St. Catherine's, were playing St. Edwards.

I tried thinking about go-cart racing, death on the highway, food. Anything. I even tried praying. But nothing would make it go away. I could be dying but there was no one I could tell about it.

It was almost 4:30 pm and I was supposed to be at the field in ten minutes. I was scared to death. I had a baseball game to play. I wondered, " was I on the verge of some teenage cancer that no one had warned me about. Is this the way I was scheduled to die? Could a cruel God think of a more ridiculous (so to speak) way of killing a kid?"

This probably wasn't the first time I felt confusion about my body but this was the first time it was going to go public. The mental scene continued to play itself out in my mind. All eyes would be riveted towards me as I made a slow, self-conscious stride towards the batter's box. I was sure everyone was whispering, pointing, and laughing out loud uncontrollably at the sight of me bowed over and trying to hide and bat at the same time. What really happened was even worse.

I threw on my scratchy wool uniform that we paradoxically wore in the desert-like climes of summer in Riverside. I ran down the alley, across the playgrounds to the park. The team was waiting for the visiting team to arrive. They began arriving in carloads. But they were missing their starting pitcher, Pinky". St. Edward was concerned because"Pinky" was starting and he was the winningest pitcher in the league. We waited and they stalled. Suddenly a car began to approach and they ran towards it. "Pinky...que pasa?"" Pinky" drove to the game in his  pink, fully lowered, tuck n' rolled 1962 Chevy Impala convertible. By his side, his new wife and his equally new baby. "Pinky" was over six feet tall , fifteen years old, and finally entering the ninth grade the next year. We were mortals among giants.

I would have felt fear if I hadn't been preoccupied with my own PROBLEM. Our team began to organize and warmed up. We then took the field. The PROBLEM is not going away. I took my position at first base. "Play ball". My mind was in overdrive. Strike one, ball one. It's a hit. Instinctively I ran over to cover the bag and take the throw. The runner was safe. He began to measure out a lead as I positioned myself in front of the bag. The pitcher threw his first pitch out of the strike zone and our catcher, Tom Ryan, hoping to catch the runner off first, fired a terrible throw to me. I scooped the horrible throw on a short hop and turned around to tag out the quickly approaching runner. He barreled into me but I managed to hold onto the ball. "YER OUT"

My parents and the crowd cheered but I couldn't hear them. I was a hero but I didn't feel joy or elation. I was standing alone, doubled over, hiding my mid-section as waves of pleasure flushed over me. The spasms continued but I didn't hear anyone. I looked down at my pants. My gawd, what happened to my uniform. Did I pee on myself? Why did it feel so good? I ran past my parents, past our dugout and straight through the alley towards my house.

In retrospect, no two more unlikely events could have come together (so to speak) in such a strange and ill-timed way. To put it in very simple terms, who would have believed that I would have my first sexual experience while tagging out a runner at first?

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