I’ve shared this story as a speech when I taught freshman
and sophomore English classes. It’s difficult to re-create some of the sounds
using a keyboard. ~TWW
Baseball is my sport. It has been for 40 years. The first
team I ever played on, in Minong back in ’74, didn’t have real uniforms. Somehow
I got a colored t-shirt and used an entire roll of my grandma’s masking tape to
make the number “1” and spell out the words Little League Baseball - on the
front and back. The homemade shirt was so stiff it felt like I was wearing a
suit of armor.Though I played in more than 100 games from Pee-Wees to Majors, to Babe Ruth to Morning League, and eventually to high school – only one game stands out in my memory.
We were playing at Haugen early in the summer after eighth grade. Haugen is a dot-on-the-map community north of Rice Lake. All of the kids in town went to the same school as those of us from Rice Lake, but we played on several different baseball teams, based on where we lived. I didn’t start many games back then. I was skinny, kind of weak, and there were a lot of kids much better at baseball than me.
On this day I was in the starting line-up, playing first base. The bleachers behind me were filled with a bevy of hot girls from school. I played it cool, chatting with them as I threw ground balls to my teammates, non-chalantly warming up as if I were the team’s star.
With my first at-bat, I lined a frozen rope into the right field gap. The ball left the sweet spot of the bat the way it’s supposed to. It kept going and going, rising at a perfect ascent toward the fence.
Most of my hits were awkward little dribblers that rarely left the infield, but this hit was the kind that makes the newspaper. Thundering down the line toward first base, instantly basking in the glory of my athletic manliness on full display in front of the dreamy-eyed girls, I could see the two outfielders turn their backs to me – which indicated they were chasing the ball. This meant I surely had a double, maybe even a triple! Rounding first, and in full mode to go to second, I looked up to see the right fielder no longer chasing the ball. He was picking it up and turning to make the throw to second base. Not only was I not going to get the triple I envisioned, I was probably going to get thrown out at second. My moment of glory was fading before it even happened. By this time I was more than half-way between bases when I put on the brakes – and tried to go back to first. Stopping the momentum of my 120-pound frame took all the strength I could muster. Every muscle in my body needed to get me back to first, quickly.
That’s when it happened. I farted. Loud!
Not a little fluff.
Not an SBD. L-O-U-D! Smack-dab in the middle of my crowning moment as a ball
player, and my sphincter betrayed me. Stumbling and bumbling my way back to
first, each step was met with the resounding reverberations of unintended intestinal
eruptions. My mind raced as fast as the
tainted wind that gusted from the seat of my jock strap.
As a kid, I watched a lot of World War II movies. All I
could think of at this moment was the sound of Japanese Kamikazes, as their
planes whistled and buzzed, spiraling into splashing, ocean explosions. I
envisioned myself as a character in an action movie, streaking across a battle
field in slow motion. You know the scene, the one where someone is lamenting in
a long, drawn-out shout. That was me – except for the interspersed flatulence.
“Ohhhhhhh nnnooooo, (insert juvenile fart noise made by sticking out a wet
tongue) Nnnottt nnnowww,” (insert fart
noise made by placing hand under armpit and pumping arm rapidly) By this time
the second baseman had the ball and he was coiling his arm to fire it to first.
With my balance lost, I bear-crawled my way back to the bag - each footstep
forcing out a sound like someone tap dancing on almost-empty squeeze ketchup
bottles. My last lunge sent me airborne, crashing into the dust at first base.
The last sound I remember, before nearly blacking out from mortifying shock,
was the splattery report of a party balloon accidentally released mid-blow.I lay there, face down in the dirt, hoping never to get up. Ball players, specifically boys, are relentless when it comes to razzing their buddies – especially when it comes to episodes like this. (I’m so thankful I wasn’t that kid who got the boner in the locker room shower – or the kid with the port wine stain birthmark in his butt crack.) I knew I couldn’t lay there forever. I had to face my fear like a man. Surely the girls were recoiled in horror, or worse yet, were pointing at me, doubled-over with laughter.
Making my way to my feet, carefully ensuring I was always in contact with the base, I stood up – prepared for the worst. This is where I expected to sulk from the field with my head hung in shame. An embarrassment of this magnitude mandates shunning by the cool kids, possibly even banishment from certain social circles. My eyes regained focus, and my ears picked up noises other than my leaky colon. A few scattered claps were followed by an “Atta boy!” and a “Woohoo!”. The first baseman said, “Nice hit.” Stunned, looking around the field and the stands, it became relievingly obvious that no one heard the sour notes tooting from my butt trumpet.
I don’t recall if I eventually scored that inning, or if we even won the game. I told the kids in my English class that winning or losing doesn’t matter. Play hard, do your best, be ready for your moment to shine, and fart as if no one is listening. ~TWW
