My Only Hit of the Season

It happened 59 years ago and I remember everything about it

That’s me, sitting down, second from the right. That’s Matt, behind me, second from the right standing up.

There are entire years of my life I can barely remember, but I will never forget the nanosecond, as a 16-year old right fielder for Camp Scatico, when I got my only hit of the season.

It was a bullet up the middle, right through the pitcher’s legs, over second base and into center field before you could say “Duke Snider.” Bam! It was a perfect hit. Seriously. A major crack of the bat. A single for the ages. Pete Rose-like. Derek Jeter-like. Tony Gwynn-like.

There were two outs at the time and my best friend, Matt Weinstein, our rather over-sized catcher, was on second. As soon as I made contact, Matt was off and running, heading to third, lumbering, as most catchers do, not all that quickly.

Me? I sprinted out of the batters box and got to first in a flash, stunned that I now had a batting average and had earned the right to stand on first base and take it all in — the glory, the accomplishment, the sense of timeless connection to all of the lead off hitters since the beginning of time.

“Speedsters” was how people referred to us. “Table setters.”

But Matt got thrown out at home! Truly. Really. I shit you not. My only chance for an RBI…