Not So Pee-Wee Anymore

            by Darcey Kurashuge-Elliott

 

            My professional baseball career began with a 26 mile per hour IncrediBall in the face. Even though the squishy baseball probably was distorted more than my 7-year-old nose, I lay on the grass in our backyard and screamed for Mommy. “Amelia hit me again!”

            She was put on timeout. I saw the many advantages of this sport, and decided then and there to give it a go. My mother and father, sensing my delight, enrolled me in Berkeley Baseball, a league where nobody keeps score, everybody gets ice cream at the end of the game, and everybody gets a participation trophy at the end of the season. I was placed in the prestigious “Pee-Wee” division, for first year players.

            My parents thought it would be a fun first experience.

            They were horribly, horribly wrong.

            Coach showed up at our first practice, holding a big box of uniforms. He handed each of us a blue jersey emblazoned with the name “MERTENS” on the front. “This is your uniform for the season. You will wear this uniform as a team. We will win as a team and if we lose, I will beat you. Understand?”

            “But Coach,” a player said, “I thought we didn’t keep score.”

            “Nonsense! That’s what they just say to get your whiny Berkeley parents to pay the $65 to get you in here. You see, every single one of you has been recruited since your conception. Everyone has been ranked on arm strength, hitting ability and speed.” A hand went up in the air. “Yes, Timmy, we were there at your playground races. We were there when you played catch with your dad.” He looked at me. “When you punched your sister in the face in utero? We were there. And we will be there, watching you, every moment of every day.” He paused. “So don’t screw up.”

            Coach hitched up his too-tight baseball pants, and grinned. “Welcome to 10 weeks of hell, boys and girls.” And we were off on the road to the devil.

            The parents that stayed to watch practice brought Doritos and Capri-Sun for us to snack on. Unfortunately, this would not suffice for Coach. “NO! NO! NO!” he screamed as he repeatedly hit the miniature bags with an aluminum bat. “Your children will be on a specially regulated diet, every day, until they slim up.” He poked Colin in the stomach with his weapon of mass destruction. “I won’t accept a kid like Tubby here on my team.”

            My over competitive parents were more than happy to oblige. I was fed a daily diet of rice cakes (plain, of course) and leafy vegetables (no dressing), followed by hours of verbal abuse (as directed by the coach). If I was lucky, I would get an apple slice. If I was unlucky, I was forced to eat my bedspread.

            I ended up losing 68 pounds in four weeks. And I only weighed 54 at the beginning!

            Fortunately for the parents, there was no such restriction, and after a couple of weeks a bar was built in the stands, manned by one of the more knowledgeable parents. The only thing that parents enjoyed more than fighting each other was a martini (shaken, not stirred – they were sophisticated parents after all) or a scotch on the rocks. Drunken parents made for a better fight.

            In fact, many parents started to ignore practice completely and stage parent fights under the grandstands. Betting was common – Timmy’s mom had a 4:1 payout, while Kim’s dad was 7:6 – and the winner got their choice of alcohol.

            One night after a particularly vicious loss, I was packing my stuff up and nursing the welts on my back when my dad approached me.

            He handed me a box. “These are magic vitamins,” he said. “They’ll help you do better in games.”

            “Wow, thanks Dad!”

            “No problem. Now, your team lost. You know what that means.”

            The merciless flogging lasted over an hour.

            Afterwards, I took two cherry Flinstones and waited for the magic.

            The next day I woke up to find my face covered in acne and my arms the size of Buicks. It was a blessing if I ever saw it.

            I began to get more and more irritable, as I graduated from cherry to orange and eventually grape-flavored. My temper was the size of my massively engorged head. I demanded, and received, my very own recliner that I positioned in the outfield. Many players argued, but few won – there was no match for the bombs I could hit during our coach-pitched games.

            “Those pills are doing you good,” my mother would say in a drunken slur after practice. “See why we tell you to take your vitamins every day?”

            “Well, then can I have an extra rice cake for dinner?”

            “NO!” And she would slam on the brakes. “Get out!”

            It was at this time that I started to suspect that my parents were taking my Flinstones to bulk up for the parent fights. What I hadn’t expected, however, was the grand jury indictment my parents received. An anonymous parent had tipped off the authorities after he/she lost to my mom and dad in a tag team brawl.

            “I swear,” my dad said as he was being taken away in chains, “I swear, I thought it was flaxseed oil!”

            I didn’t see my parents for six years.

            Since my sister and I were now without an income, we decided to take our Flinstones public. Selling them individually before games, sorted by color, or as an assortment, we had bulked up the entire league. Proactiv was now being sold at a record pace. Jerseys everywhere were ripping at the seams. The parents wouldn’t fit under the grandstands anymore, so they would wrestle on the field between innings.     Besides the occasional comment from a boy that his testicles had disappeared, everything was going fine and dandy.

            And oh, how ‘Roids Fever had been caught by every soul at La Loma Park!

            Soon, my teammates realized that I was close to breaking the Pee-Wee record for home runs – 12, set in 1913 by “Headless Hank” Hunt. He had his nickname because he had been so crazy that fans likened him to a headless chicken. Later, authorities had arrested him for taking the first steroid known to man – Rocky Mountain Oysters.

            Ah, but of course this was not to be. Everybody on the team wanted to break the record. So, they would beat me up and steal my lunch money. The coaches refused to pitch to me, intentionally walking me instead. Sometimes my own coach would even pelt me in the back!

            In addition, everybody on the bench when I was up to bat would stand in the field, even on top of the fence, and help the other team get me out. I had at least 3 home runs taken away from me by my own team.

            But I would do the same thing for my teammates, and all’s fair in love and ‘roid rage.