Shortstop logic

Here is a logical construction that they don’t teach in Philosophy 101: All right handed power hitters hate shortstops.

I was a right handed power hitter.

I hate shortstops.

With a vengeance.

You see, back in the day, power hitters were supposed to pull the ball all the time; it’s where you got your power. Doubles were acceptable; home runs were expected. So, we power guys would hit up on the ball a la Ted Williams and look to the fences.

The only problem was that pitchers knew as well as we did what we were up to and made sure that the top of the strike zone was just above the knees. Golf anyone?

Consequently, we hit on top of the ball just as often as we hit up and under it for a nice long drive. Who was the pest that ended up catching the grounder; you guessed it: the doggone shortstop.

What is a shortstop anyway, and why is he out there at all? They are short guys who stop guys like me from ever getting a measly little single. They are quick and agile and good ball handlers; everything that we big guys are not and wish we were. Whoops; I didn’t really say that.

So the last time I picked up a bat for real was back when my son was playing Babe Ruth ball, and I was assisting. The coach had an in with the Hall of Fame up in Cooperstown; so we made the trip, visited the museum, and then got to play on the Hall of Fame ball field. That is how you spell “cool.”

I got a chance at the plate, and that left field wall looked very, very tempting. It was a short field to left; all I had to do was get up and under one, and I could end my career with a home run at Doubleday Field. Rockets would go off; bugles would blare; the thousands of fans in attendance would give the most rousing Standing O in Cooperstown history.

I let the first two pitches go by; two balls — no strikes: a hitter’s count if there ever was one.

I eyed that short porch, dug in, gauged the sinkerball the pitcher offered up. I could see the seams rotate on the ball. I could measure the sink. I made a perfect coil. I smoothly rotated my hips into a picture perfect swing. I made contact; and, and, and…

Grounded out to shortstop.

I hit it straight to the doggone shortstop for probably the thousandth time in my life. I even hit a one hopper for him. I was out by so much that the first baseman could have caught a snack waiting for me to get to the base.

I suppose you could say that it was a fitting end to my baseball career, but I wouldn’t say that.

You know what I say: I HATE SHORTSTOPS.

 

Millerton resident Theodore Kneeland is a retired teacher and coach — and ballplayer.

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