I remember when Nick threw a no-hitter

I didn't write about Nick this year.  Not on June 6^th, not about June 6^th.  I saw the day approaching and I thought about what to write.  I tried to think about something different.  I wanted to change the focus; to change my focus to an earlier day.  I thought of writing several anecdotes, stories from our childhood.  I wanted to tell a different story, a simpler story, and above all a happy story.  Here is one of those.

I remember when Nick threw a no-hitter.

Backyard wiffleball was life at that time.  It's all we cared about, at least it's all most of us cared about.  Nick’s interest was not pushed to the obsession of some others, but he was most certainly one of the group.  Nick was as competitive an athlete as anyone I knew, but in whiffleball he wouldn't see the success he later enjoyed.  His successes were based more on the possession of an unending determination than anything else.  In the backyard he wasn't the best player.  He wasn't as gifted a bat-and-ball athlete as some of us. I think he played with a defeatist attitude at times.  He knew he wasn't as good as many and that had to kill him. 

But that's what we did.  Everyone.  All the kids (okay all the boys) in the neighborhood played.  A pile of bikes on the front lawn told the story.

The game was competitive, very competitive.  We kept a stat book. The field was kept as perfect as we could make it, at times included raking the grass and dirt, lining the field in chalk (and/or spray paint), and yes, even re­-sodding portions of the infield.  That’s grass.  We put in new grass. We had rules about everything from how much tape could be used on the bats, to the exact ball to use (from Mills and Greer; always from Mills and Greer), to how hard a fielder could bean, that is throw at with intent to imprint a whiffleball-shaped welt, a baserunner.  I’m kidding about that last one; harder throw makes bigger welt means more fun for all.  Of course.

We kept records: most hits in a game, most home runs in a game, who pitched a no-hitter, most steals in a game, most walks in a game, most strikeouts in a game.  There are more; everything was documented.  I still have the record sheets.

We went through a phase where we videotaped every game, rain or shine.

Most of us pitched, some of course more than others. One day Nick was going to pitch.  The game was four-on-four.  Each team had two fielders, the pitcher, and the catcher.  I was the catcher.

Nick threw sidearm, all the time.  He dragged his back foot on every pitch creating a small hole on the mound and ruining the toe of his right shoe.  He threw from the stretch, right foot on the rubber, and strode towards the first base side of home, throwing side arm every time.  Strode is a word, I double checked.  He had only one pitch:  fastball.  A sidearm fastball that at times tailed a lot, that is it would start out towards the left hand batter’s box and move back towards the right. I make it sound like it had a three foot break; it didn’t.  It moved more like a good two-seamer in the pros (any baseball fans out there?).   

We played seven innings, two outs per inning.  Fourteen outs, no hits.  I'm not sure who we played; who was on the other team that day.  I don't remember the details of the game.  I remember catching and calling the pitches (okay, locations).  I remember things going well. 

I mostly set up on the outside corner, that's the pinky on the right hand.  We stayed away from the righties (I think all four were right-handed) with the tailing fastball.  It was a difficult pitch to hit; difficult to gauge the speed and location.  We had but the one pitch (and the ability to change speeds); mostly we worked on changing locations and keeping the ball out of the middle of the plate.

I still have the ball from that day.  I'm not sure how many pitches he threw or how many strikeouts he had.  I'm not sure how many runs we scored to support him.  I know we won and I know he threw a no-hitter, but that's all I can remember for sure.

Nick didn’t show his emotions when successful.  He was far more likely to show them when he failed, as evidenced by the waist-high shoe print on the back of the (white­-painted) garage.  When the game was over and all of the kids were congratulating him, he reacted with a sheepish half-smile, seemingly embarrassed by his success. 

I've never quite known how to take a compliment either.  I’m not sure whether it comes from a humble soul, or one riddled by self-doubt.  Maybe it’s a bit of both.  Maybe one feeds the other.  One thing I know, in that moment he had to feel like a success.  Even today I have a strong sense of the pride I then felt.  I was just so happy for him, and I’m not sure I had felt before, or have felt that exact surge of emotion since.

It’s great to succeed in an area of strength, but maybe it’s better to succeed in a way that you didn’t see coming.