My Cute Dimple

Or…how T-ball almost killed me.

I don’t know if they have T-ball any longer. If they do; they shouldn’t. It is, without question, one of the most dangerous games in North America.

As you can see by the picture above, the game is designed for the much younger set; the ones where, if there was a pitcher, no one would have to use a bat. The ball was never going to get near home plate. So, they place the hard-as-rock major league size ball on top of a rubber stand and just let the kid hit it. Everything else about the game is the same.

One of my many questions about the game of T-ball is, why does the batter wear the helmet? Is he going to get hit by the pitch? Is he taking a motorcycle to first base?

And how does one bunt?

That’s not my point. My point is the problem with that rubberized weapon stand on which the ball sits. No adult yells when the ball has been hit. There is the death knell of a hard ball being hit by a hard bat. The six year old kids are supposed to be paying attention in the field, because all they hear is a small, murderous, click.

I was on the pitcher’s mound. I don’t know why I had to be there; we weren’t pitching the ball! So, being as I had nothing constructive to do, I was talking to the third baseman while the next batter was getting set to go.

Then something hit me. No…I mean…something hit me. I didn’t feel it. Everything just went black. When I opened my eyes and saw all the people standing around me, I only had one thing on my mind… “Charley…do not cry.” I was six. Could you imagine?!

And I didn’t!

Those were the good ol’ days. The coach picked me up, brushed me off, and we continued with the game. The only minor adjustment is that the coach had to turn me around to face the batter as opposed to the center fielder. There were no parents, there was no ambulance, there were no lawyers. We finished the game.

The ball chipped a bone in my cheekbone and ever since I’ve had the cutest damn dimple in the world.

In our family, we weren’t much into making big things out of non-life-threatening situations. Especially if my dad was home. I got home, came into the house, and he looked at me over his newspaper. “Why does it look like you have baseball stitchings all down the side of your face?”

“I fell asleep on the ball,” I said.

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