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Although fantasies call for filming the screaming line drive over the second baseman’s head, reality’s script interrupted the dream and rolled the bunt sequence.
However, when the game situation demanded a bunt, the opposition unknowingly played right into my strength.
So it was, as a skinny, impressionable high school sophomore that I had my most spectacular plate appearance.
On a bright, sunny, Saturday morning in mid-April, I squeeze-bunted my way into history.
It was a day when the air was warm and ambition unlimited. We were playing a make-up game and our team needed a conference win to stay close to the earlyseason leaders.
On that day, the regular firstbaseman was either sick or in jail — whichever —so I got the start.
In my second at-bat, with a runner at third, I knew what was coming. The coach flashed the squeeze sign, I got the perfect pitch to bunt and rolled that sucker nine feet up the third base line where it rolled to a dead stop, a three-yard RBI.
The coach, who still didn’t know my first name, said “Good job” and patted me on the fanny.
I returned to the bench my insides hootin’ and hollerin’ but on my face I carried a feigned look of confi lence that said I knew how to do it all along.
For a brief moment one Saturday afternoon in April, even a huge forehead zit could not dim my spirits.
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