The Art of Rouse in Baseball

 

April 5, 1966, an unbelievable 58 years ago today, was the opening day of the spring high school baseball season in the north woods of Wisconsin. I was a freshman and was selected to be the starting catcher for our team (probably because nobody else wanted the position). Our opponent that day was the Prairie Farm Farmers, a team that my dad played for 30 some years earlier when he was in high school there. My dad was a pitcher and a fairly good one. Good enough, I guess, to be offered a chance to try out for the Chicago Cubs. He didn’t make the cut but he rode to Chicago for the try out with Andy Pafko from nearby Boyceville, Wisconsin. Andy Pafko made it to the Big Leagues and played for the Cubs. My dad stayed home and watched him on the television.

April 5, 1966, was an exciting day because in my mind I made it to the Big Leagues also. Several of my fellow freshman classmates including Keith Popko were also in the starting lineup. We had been playing baseball together since almost the time we could hold a baseball so it seemed almost normal that we were varsity ball players in the ninth grade.

Our opponent, Prairie Farm, was no major threat although one of their players (I think he was the second baseman but can’t remember) had won the state championship in the 100-yard dash in state track competition the previous year. He probably had his eyes set on a repeat performance in 1966.

During our warmups, while coach Dick Gay was hitting grounders to the infield, he instructed me that each time I threw a ball to second base I was supposed to throw it wild. High. Low, Far to the left. Maybe to the center fielder? It didn’t matter. He wanted all throws to be wild. The coaches instructions were strange because in practice leading up to the start of the season he had been a stickler for accurate throws and especially to second base.

Coach Gay was the boss, so I threw every ball as inaccurately as my ethics would allow.

In the bottom of the first inning the third batter for Prairie Farm was the speedster who won the 100-yard dash the year before. He got on base with a weak hit to right field and almost instantly led off first base as the next batter came to the plate.

As our pitcher wound up to throw his first pitch to the next batter, the runner on first base exploded into an intense run toward second base. When I caught the pitch I threw an accurate throw, as hard as I could, to second base. The trajectory was flat, the speed was high, and the ball reached our second baseman’s outstretched hands while the runner was starting his slide. We threw him out by at least three feet. I threw out the fastest runner in Wisconsin and did so by at least three feet.

The 100-yard dash champion came to bat again in the fourth inning and once again reached first base.  This time I think he was walked. Regardless of how he got to first base he was there and his sights were set on stealing second base. Following the first pitch to the next hitter, the dash champion raced toward second base. Seeing his departure, I threw another bullet to second base and nailed his ass again. This time, however, by only a foot or so.  After throwing out the 100-yard champion a second time we never saw another Prairie Farm runner attempt to steal a base.

On the bus ride home Coach Gay explained to me why he made me throw wildly during warmup.  He knew I had an accurate arm but he wanted the Prairie Farm coach and especially the 100-yard dash winner, to think that this freshman behind the plate wasn’t up to the task. Thanks to Coach Gay, we taught Prairie Farm otherwise.