No Little League (they hadn't made it to our town, I guess) when I was of age. As an immigrant (9 yrs old) who'd never seen a baseball, by my second summer all we did was play baseball. In the lots, the park, the field; one-on-one games with peeled rubber balls . . .

Had a totally undistinguished "peewee" career (9-12yr, I think). Then when I was fourteen I went out for the town "Bantam" team ( 13-15). I was older than some, but a hell of a lot skinnier. Since Ted Williams was my favourite player, I of course wanted to play LF, hit .407 (hardly an achievement in that league), never strike out, walk a lot, hit towering, timely home runs and rush after my team-mates as I drove them in.

All my dreams were shattered by the fact I couldn't hit my way out of the infield. Think Darren Lewis, but me you could catch while carrying two buckets of water (and not spill a drop).

But it turned out I had the softest hands on the team, good "ball off the bat sense," and a very good arm, although I needed two steps to get rid of the ball. So I ended up playing second base. I didn't have particularly good range, but I used to get a very good jump on the ball. Basically, I handled everything in the air on my side all the way over behind first base without any trouble. I was very good at chasing down wannabee Texas Leaguers into short right field.

I ended up hitting second in the lineup, and perfected the art of getting hit by the ball. I weighed about 120 lbs (5'8") and wore an outsize jersye with HUGE sleeves (to protect my elbows, I told the Ump). I survived, but my sleeves were black and blue. I hit about .300 (8th or 9th on the team). If I remember correctly, the only extra base hits I ever got were an infield triple that the whole opposing infield lost in the sun, and a couple of caroms off the third or first base bags that eluded everyone. If remember correctly, I had OBPs of about .500, ave. of ~.300, and slugging of about .310. Rbis? Rbis? Uhhmm . . .

I was good at advancing the runner, mainly due to my inability to get the ball up in the air very often, and my bat speed was such (I was a right-handed hitter) that hitting the hole between first and second was hardly an effort.

I did kill curve balls, though. I was too stupid to be afraid to be afraid of the ball, so I'd stand way up in the batter's box (hanging out over the plate), trying to hit the curve before it broke too far down. Unfortunately, very few pitchers threw curve balls, so that particular skill was rarely displayed.

The usual dictum was, "Mario, get on base. Anyway you can." I rarely struck out.

My most 'memorable' play was a curious one, since I got tossed out of the game.

At home. Top of the seventh (last inning), we're up 4-1. One out. Runners on first and third. We had a catcher who had a bazooka for an arm. Al could fire a ball to second with barely an arc on it. The rules were, man on first tries to steal, Al will throw to second, regardless.

On this particular occasion I wasn't paying attention and didn't notice the runner from first breaking. Suddenly I got onto the same channel and went for second, receiving Al's throw (which was perfect -- it led me, I caught one step from planting, waist high) just as the runner went into his slide. I swiped down and felt his jersey, so I knew I'd nailed him. Hey! I was standing four feet in front of second, and he wasn't seven feet tall. Long.

"Safe!" yelled the Yankee-loving umpire.

I turned around with an unsubtle "WHAT? YOU MORON?"

"Safe," he reiterated.

"No way," said I. And we began arguing, nose to nose and me throwing my hat down onto the ground and explaining how he was out of position (behind me) and ". . . my god, how can you call him safe?" When the first baseman runs up to me and says "Mario, the runner! The runner! Throw home, man!"

And I looked, and the runner was two-thirds of the way home. I wound up and threw a perfect strike home and Al nailed the runner. I continued arguing and was in the process of getting thrown out when the runner on second tried to take third on my throw home. Al nailed him with a perfect strike to Zvonko.

That year we went to the Ontario finals for small towns (less than 10,000). The following year we won it. Turning 16 I discovered motorcycles, girls and guitars. And the fact I wasn't ever going to be star. That always bummed me.

Thanks, if you read this far.

mario in toronto
..
"has been? has been? I wish."