Amateur Baseball part 3 PLEASE READ PART 1, THEN 2 FIRST

The next few innings ran seamlessly together. Ole continued to strike out batter after batter. His one mistake was when he threw a fastball (that wasn’t very fast) to the clean-up hitter who hit a monstrous home run over the centerfield fence. Not since the time I drove his pick-up (I was about 13) had I seen him so angry.


It was the bottom of the 6th inning and the score remained 1-1. I was the 9th hitter and I was to bat first this inning. I hadn’t tried to hit a ball traveling at 75 mph for many years, I was nervous, so much so that my stomach was in knots. I took some practice swings and I remembered being ten years old, playing little league for Swanville. My cousins are also on the team and grandpa is in the stands watching. Before the game gramps tells me if I strike out I will have to sleep in the ice fishing house. I never thought he was going to make me sleep in the fish house. I was more worried about letting gramps down. Sure enough, on this day in little league, I strike out. I let gramps down. I felt so horrible that I walked back to his home and was hid in the fish house until my cousin Joe found me. As a child gramps was my hero. As an adult, my dad is.

“Batter up!” the umpire yells which brings me to the moment. I step into the batter’s box and focus on the pitcher. “Don’t drop your shoulder,” I tell myself. As the first pitch travels towards home plate, it looks like I’m going to be hit in the head. I step back in time but the ball curves at the last second and crosses the middle of the plate. “Strike One!” the umpire yells. I look at the catcher somewhat bewildered and say out loud, “That was a nice pitch.” The catcher chuckles to himself partially because of the unwritten rule of baseball that I just broke. The next pitch was a fastball down the middle and I swing as hard as I can (which you are never supposed to do) and I hit a slow foul ball towards the first baseman. Understanding I need to swing sooner, I prepare myself for another fastball. I dig my shoes into the dirt, the count is no balls and two strikes. The pitcher fires the ball and I was right, it looked like another fastball. I step forward with my left leg, and swing the bat. “Strike three!” the umpire yells. The pitcher threw a curve ball that broke to the outside corner of the plate at the last second.

Angry at myself, I walk back to the dugout hanging my head. As I take my seat alone at the end of the bench Ole tells me to “shake it off” and that we will “get them next time”. I was so angry that I couldn’t pay attention to what the other two batters did that inning. I was ten years old again, hiding in the fish house.

My dad has always said I play sports better when I am angry. As we take the field, I find myself in that place, not uncontrollable anger, but more of a controlled focused anger. The next few innings in the field the infielders make some wild throws but I was able to recover enough to catch the ball and get some of them out. One throw I ended up doing the splits, which I didn’t know I could do. Ole started calling me stretch (I grinned each time gramps called me that. I thought it was cool gramps created a nick name for me).

It’s now the bottom of the 9th, score is tied 1-1 and I’m up to bat again. For a brief second I’m nervous, but this feeling quickly disappears as I am now only focused on one thing, hitting the hell out of that baseball.

The pitcher delivers the first pitch, it was the same curveball that I struck out my first time at bat. I hit a high foul ball towards the first baseman, which actually lost the ball in the sun. I caught a huge break. As the second ball is released from the pitcher’s hand, time suddenly slows down, the pitcher’s arm is moving in slow motion. The ball is spinning counter clockwise and as before looks like it’s going to hit me in the head. The ball continues to travel towards my head, “Wait for it” I think to myself. I squeeze the bat a little tighter. As the ball breaks and begins to curve towards the center of the plate I swing the bat and I hear the sound of the ball making contact with the wooden bat. As I begin to run towards first I notice the ball is almost crawling towards the third baseman. He picks it up with his bare hand and fires it to first. As I’m about to touch the base with my outstretched leg, the first baseman jumps into the air. I see the ball sail past the first baseman and I’m able to get to second safely. I’m annoyed with myself I didn’t hit the ball harder.

Ole is the next batter and before he knows it, the count is zero balls and two strikes. He’s waiting for HIS pitch, no doubt. The pitcher throws a fastball and Ole hits a deep line drive to center field. I stay on the base as there’s a chance the center fielder will catch it. The center fielder runs to the chain link fence and stops in his tracks, he is getting ready to time his jump. He leaps into the air as high as I’ve ever seen anyone jump before and for a second I can’t see the ball as it looks like it is inside his glove. I then see the ball come out of his glove and land on the other side of the fence. Home Run!

I cross home plate and turn to watch Ole touch the base after me. The team hoists him on their shoulders, and brings him back to the dug out. I look in the stands and see grandma standing clapping her hands. My Uncle Bruce who is three, standing as well watching and imitating grandma. I see my mother, who looks an awful lot like one of my daughters, one year old crying from all of the cheering.

As the team begins to disperse, Ole and his family are getting into their car. He turns to me and says, “Do you have someplace to go, stretch? If you don’t you can stay at our house for a while. I won’t even make you sleep in the fish house,” he says with a wink and that mischievous smile of his.

Amateur Baseball part 2 IF YOU HAVEN'T READ AMATEUR BASEBALL, SCROLL DOWN AS THIS MIGHT NOT MAKE SENSE

Ole was the first player to bat. After two pitches, he was behind in the count no balls and two strikes. The next pitch was low, one ball and two strikes, followed by an inside fastball that looked like it could have been a strike. The pitcher on the opposing team stares angrily at the umpire. The count is now two balls and two strikes. The pitcher winds up and fires a ‘heater’ down the middle of the plate, a perfect strike. Gramps cocks his bat and swings. The crowd comes to their feet when they hear the sound of the bat meeting the ball. The ball sails over the leaping right fielder. A sprinting Ole makes it to second before the right fielder has a chance to throw the ball to the cut-off person.


The next batter hits a deep fly ball to the center fielder who catches it without a problem. Ole tags up and is now on third base. The next batter hits a two hopper to the first baseman, who rather then throwing the ball home, steps on first for the second out. Ole safely touches home plate for the first run of the game. The next batter strikes out swinging and he was so angry he threw his bat. He receives a tongue lashing from the manager that was so much laced in profanity that you would think it was right out of a Quentin Tarrantino movie. After the first inning, Swanville 1 and Grey Eagle 0.

Amateur Baseball

So through a series of interesting events, I have come to learn that at Target Field, there is a restaurant called Town Ball Tavern. The term ‘town ball’ refers to amateur baseball teams located in various towns across Minnesota. Outside of Town Ball Tavern there apparently are pictures of amateur teams embedded into the brick, so it looks like it is part of the structure. Anyways, someone got in contact with my aunt and uncle as there was a picture that had the caption across the bottom “Morrison County All-Stars 1946”. As it turns out, my grandpa was on that team and he is on the far right in the front row.


My grandpa, from my understanding, was a great pitcher. He tried out for a minor league team, but he didn’t make it because, “my hitting wasn’t too sharp.” I guess back then there wasn’t the designated hitter rule.

Grandpa lived and breathed baseball, even in the last years of his life. There is a picture, when he was probably 85 or 86, of him throwing out the first ceremonial pitch at my cousin’s amateur game. When cable tv arrived in the 1980’s, baseball was on all the time at grandpa’s.

Baseball is part of the Olson bloodline, unfortunately I didn’t inherit those skills (I could never hit a curveball). I was watching my cousin’s amateur team one summer and I think five or six of the people in the field for one of the teams I was related to in some way.

Since I first saw the picture the other day, I wonder what it would have been like to watch him pitch. In my mind I see grainy, black and white footage that eventually comes alive with color as I had to use my time machine to travel back to watch him.

Grandpa is throwing his warm up pitches. He obviously looks much different than I remember him. He is still shorter then average but is so much younger. After grandpa throws a fastball during warm ups, the catcher takes his hand out of his glove and shakes it as if his hand was hurting.

The first batter comes to the plate and steps into the batter’s box. Grandpa fires a fastball that grazes the outside corner for a strike. Second pitch gramps tries throwing a knuckle ball and the hitter fouls it toward first base. The third pitch, grandpa hangs a curveball and the hitter hits it down the first base line. The ball takes a bad hop and hits the first baseman in the head. He is o.k. but his bell is rung a little. Grandpa’s team had exactly 9 people to play which leaves them a man short. The manager asks the crowd if anyone has any experience playing baseball (this wouldn’t happen today). No one muttered a word. I reluctantly raise my hand and said I played when I was younger but in recent years have just played softball. By the expression on their faces, I could tell none of them knew what softball was. The manager finds me a uniform and surprisingly it fits perfectly. The manager asks me what position I play. I tell him in my day I was a pretty good first baseman. Perfect, he tells me. I am quickly introduced to the other players. Grandpa shakes my hand and says, “Olson, Ernie Olson but everyone calls me Ole.” I extend my hand to shake his and I say, “Mitch, nice to meet you Ole.” He looks up at me as I’m at least six inches taller then him and he says, “You are tall, is everyone in your family as tall as you?”

I trot over to first base and stretch my legs out. Ole comes up to me and asks me where I learned to do such funny things with my legs. I tell him that I’ve always done this. He shakes his head and walks to the pitcher’s mound.

There is a man on first and the second batter is up. I position myself over first base as the runner is leading off and I get the feeling Ole will try to pick him off. Sure enough, Ole zings the ball over to me and we catch the base runner off guard. I catch the ball and slap the tag on the runner before he can get back to the base. I hear the umpire yell, “YOUR OUT!” Gramps and I, together, got him out. I feel myself getting choked up for a second but quickly my competitive juices take over and I focus on the game.

Ole strikes out the next two batters without breaking a sweat and now it is our turn to bat.


TO BE CONTINUED….