The Baseball School

I once dreamt a most horrible dream. Perhaps it was the pepperoni pizza. Maybe it had something to do with a show I had viewed on TV. Whatever the impetus it caused me to stir through an endless night.

It began to the best of my recollection with me being a high school student once again. Somehow I was moving to a brand new school. In the past my pathway towards success showed little impediment. All of that was about to change.

My dream (or dare I say nightmare?) took me to the first day of my new high school experience. Mom and Dad had prepared me with notebooks, pens and money for lunch. The day’s attire was appropriate for the dress of the moment. It appears as if all systems said go.

It didn’t take long for a bit of confusion to set in. After being let off by Dad on his way to work I noticed scores of young people entering a structure with the words Doubleday High School impaled over the entranceway.

Doubleday High School was smack dab in the middle of a beautiful little town called West Blueridge. The place was the perfect spot for athletes and team owners. In many ways the town and school were one big success factory.

It didn’t strike me as odd – but nearly all the children appeared to be wearing some form of sports attire as they headed through Doubleday’s doors. Looking back, the attire was all baseball related. Some wore hats with B’s and pictures of Birds stitched to them. Others wore jackets with names like Cubs and Astro’s. Perhaps I missed an announcement about a "welcome to school" theme day. Oh well, I followed everyone through the doors and anxiously entered into my latest school experience.

The school building was much like other schools I had attended. While it looked as though everyone was wearing baseball attire (except for me and a few others) things seemed OK for the moment. Looking at my schedule it appeared that my destination for homeroom should be room 406. A gentleman by the name of Mr. Williams would be the first faculty member I’d encounter.

Mr. Williams was a tall and thin man. He wore a cap and a jersey that had Boston written on it. It was obvious right off the bat that all of the kids knew and respected him. As he read roll call, Mr. Williams would periodically interject some nicety to a student (nice jacket, good hat, etc.). When it came my turn he simply said/asked “Mr. Houghtaling can I speak with you a moment after homeroom?” As most folks know, the last thing any new kid at a school wants is to appear out of sync. What’s this all about, I thought.

Ambling up to the teacher’s desk after all the students left I awaited Mr. Williams’ words. They were, “Is everything OK with you Bob? I noticed that you are not wearing sports attire and did you forget your glove?” After I explained that I didn’t know of these expectations, Mr. Williams told me that if there was anyway he could be of help just drop by his room. I thanked him and with some trepidation headed towards my first class.

Woops! First class happened to be Gym with today’s activity being (you guessed it) baseball. Everyone, except for me and three other kids, was raring and ready to go. The kids had gloves, uniforms, spikes, etc.... Me and my three pals (two guys and a girl), let’s just say we hadn’t come prepared. I wore sneakers, blue jeans and a black shirt (not exactly the desired attire).

The teacher for this class was Mrs. O’Donnell. After checking attendance she exhorted, “Welcome to fundamentals of baseball.” She then instructed us to count off by 2s and proceed to have a game of catch.

Hey, I’m a pretty good whiffle ball player in my own backyard. I also watch a game every now and then with my family. With this being said, no one will mistake me for Albert Pujols, Derek Jeter or Roy Halladay. Let the games begin.

Because I wasn’t prepared, Mrs. O’Donnell gave me her glove, which was left-handed. I tried to make due – but the other kid playing catch with me had a rocket for an arm. Between dropping the ball, occasionally throwing it over my partner’s head and catching a few off of my arms and chest, it was a humiliating experience.

Mrs. O’Donnell had a real rosy outlook about the whole thing. She tried offering tips and encouragement. Unfortunately, encouragement does little for bruises. Eventually Mrs. O’Donnell asked me to come and play catch with her. To be kind she tossed a few underhand throws my way. Even though I caught most of them it was an uncomfortable experience. The session ended. We all headed for our next class. I felt like a loser. I felt like a geek. Maybe next period will be better.

Next class wasn’t any better. It had to do with "The Art of Pitching." Specifically, the day’s lesson had to do with throwing a curve ball. I threw out my arm after only a few pitches. The teacher, Mr. Koufax, mentioned some medical procedure having to do with a guy named Tommy John. My arm hurt like hell. I spent the rest of the class wondering whether or not I would complete the day. My mind wandered.

Where were Math, English, Science and Social Studies? Whatever happened to Euclid, Hemmingway, Darwin and Andrew Jackson? Heck, I couldn’t change a tire but please let me take an automotive class. Things eventually went from bad to worse. Base stealing with Mr. Cobb, fielding with Mrs. Davis and Miss Briggs, lunch (hot dogs) and the Art of Bunting left me with only one more hour to survive. I was just hanging on.

As I headed for my next class (Mr. Aaron in Room 755) I met up with those three other kids who were not prepared first period. After a brief discussion we all decided to skip class and leave school grounds. It was fun. It was a relief. It was also nerve racking.

When I got home that evening my parents confronted me about blowing off my last class. The assistant principle, Mr. DiMaggio, called home and told them the details. After a few "whys" and "how comes," I finally blurted out: “I’m not going back to that school. The kids think I’m a loser and the teachers treat me like a baby. School is so boring, there is nothing there for me.” Suddenly I awoke in a cold sweat. Wow – some nightmare. I got up to go to the bathroom and get a glass of water. Thinking the worst was over, I settled back to sleep.

Dreams are weird. Sometimes they do not make sense. Sometimes they jump around. This time I went back to Doubleday School – only it seemed a bit of time had elapsed in the school year.

It appeared as though I was back in school. Only this time my attitude and behavior had changed. The school quickly figured out that help was necessary for young Bob. Parent conferences ensued. Special classes were not far behind. The teachers seemed to be trying, but my skills didn’t match their curriculum. Sure, I did well enough to figure out earned-run averages, on-base percentages and batting averages. I also did OK with learning about Baseball History (Black Sox Scandal, Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente). But the bottom line was I couldn’t really hit, run or field.

My three buddies and I started skipping more classes. We cared and didn’t at the same time. We also wanted to belong and didn’t. Sometimes the best option a kid thinks he or she has is to quit or not deal. With some Cs, Ds and at least two Fs, my report card certainly warranted a conference with school officials and my parents.

The faculty, administration and counselors at the meeting all felt that I was a nice kid. They told my parents and me that there was a chance I might fail or at least have to go to summer school. Things weren’t looking good.

One counselor asserted that there was a school a few miles down the road that catered to "non-traditional students." She pumped me up by saying that kids with my skills either become teachers, lawyers, counselors, accountants or business types. “There is no shame in that,” she said. “Not everyone was meant to be a ballplayer.” Reality had set in – I was bound for a job that was far less lucrative than being a baseball star.

The meeting ended and I left the guidance office. Before leaving, I heard a part of a conversation Mom and Dad were having with one of the administrators. It had something to do with Doubleday School’s outstanding reputation. The school was ranked in the top two or three in the state. The administrator then said something about next year and how kids will be required to pass a three-pronged (hitting, fielding and pitching) exam.

The State Education Commissioner, Mrs. Frick, had advocated for stricter graduation requirements. She thought that these measurements would offer the "best of all possible worlds." Many education reformers agreed. My dad asked something about what happens when kids fall short of the requirements. The answer given, I think by Mr. DiMaggio, was “remediation, remediation, remediation. But don’t worry, most kids will pass anyway. All they have to do is show minimal improvement. I wish that more could be done, my hands are tied. Right now 40 percent of the kids in the state can’t hit a ball out of the infield.”

Then I awoke – dazed, confused and bewildered. Thank goodness I am not a kid anymore, I thought, and then went to the kitchen for breakfast.

That dream happened a few months back. It still bothers me from time to time. I wonder if some kids feel that way when they don’t fit in or are not being successful? We should all be thankful that young people do not have to experience such things in real life. Just imagine if students were held back due to standardized tests. Now that would be a nightmare.

P.S. Commissioner Frick liked to quote Tom Hanks, asserting that “there is no crying in baseball.” Or is there?