Yer Out

“Yer Out” was the common cry my ears rang with as a child.  Or else the cries “Ball”, and “Strike” rang in my ears.  I was a last to be picked stringer.  And I accordingly hated baseball. I didn’t know the great Babe Ruth struck out more than he connected.  As I was physically as strong as I was also uncoordinated.    It was such a slow game, I complained—which doesn’t explain why I liked chess and go or long hikes in the woods. 

Raised in Seattle, I moved to Santa Cruz, CA at 13, not to return until 43.  I retained into adulthood my dislike of baseball. And so too my love of walking the urban woods, forest, parks and beaches remained intact.

One spring day when I was 19 or twenty I went for a long walk in a Delavega Park, a large park at the edge of Santa Cruz.   The walk took me by the baseball field. A familiar voice called out “Joe” from the field and there I saw two teams forming, both composed of friends of mine.  The surprise at seeing so many friends in on spot beckoned me over. My friend said, ‘We are short a player—can you join one of the teams”. 

I stated categorically and perhaps in the imperative, that I have always hated baseball, and added that I usually struck out, to which the bottom line reply came – we have a keg of beer.  I couldn’t argue with that logic, nor did I protest the utter disregard for city park alcohol rules, which seemed at the moment worthy of disregard.  I immediately joined the game and warmed up my batting arm several times at the keg, enjoying sudsy the comradeship of friends. 

I came up to bat after three pints worth of warm up with my batting arm.  The ball came across from the pitcher, smooth, but fast and I entered into a relationship with it with the same reckless abandon another drinker might apply to a fair young lady.  I suddenly just didn’t care.  I wanted to get it over with and get back to warming up. 

And in that reckless abandon the bat did something totally unexpected.  It hit it dead on and smooth and the ball went flying, through the outfield, over the fence, across the two lane service road, into the bushes and trees between the road and Delavega Creek at park’s boundary.  When he ran down the creek we discovered that the ball had indeed been caught, by a crawfish, which had wrapped its permanently crumpled body around the hardball. On seeing this stunning catch the umpire yelled “Yer Out” which is why I still hate baseball.