The Homer

Hi! I’m Smith Landers. I’m whatcha call a minor league pitcher, relief at that. Never had even a whiff of the big leagues, and now that I’m a-fixin’ to slam inta th’ big three-five, I’m not likely to see it either. Usually a guy like me is called inta a game to throw a few trick knuckleballs and just get the team to stagger to the next inning, certainly not for any slugging. The rare at bats I had were freak occurrences, some team playing by National League rules ‘n’ the coach thought I was pitching too hot fer just one inning. What I’d like to relate is the freakiest of those occurrences, in a game where I was incredibly selected as a pinch hitter. And not just any game, but a game that could either win us or lose us a pennant!



Me ‘n’ Joe Cheezy had settled down in the bullpen for a 9-inning stay. We were just scrub relievers and didn’t really believe they’d call us in on such an important game. It was a game between us, the Batesridge Stompers, and our traditional rivals, the Tri-County Black Sox. It was the last game of the season ‘n’ we was only a half-game outta first place. An’ you kin just guess who was sittin’ purty in first !

Well, it seemed ta me like the whole dagblasted town of Batesville was there. The entire stadium was filled. Okay, it wasn’t really a stadium. My high school had larger facilities for field hockey! Double A ball – gotta love it! Nevertheless, people were sittin’ all over the place. In the bleachers, on the ground, on top of Blakely’s Grocery Store. All we had to do to start the game was get’em off the outfield.

In their half of the first inning, The Black Sox scored five runs and used up our best pitcher and best reliever. In our half, we struck out twice and scored one run offa Brinky’s homer (Brink Satterfield was our starting third baseman).

By the fifth inning, they had used five of nine pitchers on our staff. The score was nine to four in favor of those black-hearted Black Sox. Fred Gibbs, normally a starter, was our new pitcher. The first man up hit a single that scooted into leftfield, jes’ past the diving shortstop. The second man walked putting men on first and second. The man on second then stole third. The third man walked loading the bases. What a revoltin’ development!

This was our cue. The bullpen coach, Lem Forest, whipped around toward us, and gave us the evil eye. “Okay, I want you and you!”

Jes’ to emphasize his malevolent stare, he pointed at me ‘n’ Joe. Joe teased him. “Aw, gee, Lem, I jes’ got ta sleep!”

“If you don’t get out there, I’mma gonna put you to sleep. THE HARD WAY! Now git!”

Me ‘n’ Joe bounced out of the bullpen and began our warm-up tosses. Whilst we was warmin’ up, Gibby walked another man to bring in another run. Oh, lordy, it was ten to four.

Ol’ Lem, in his infinite wisdom, decided to put in Joe, not quite trusting such a vital assignment ta little ol’ me, Smith Landers. Heck, I couldn’t quite blame him. I hadn’t had a stellar season. I had won 2 and lost 7, with a 5.72 earned run average.

Well, Joe clambered onto the field and immediately began to play ball. Joe struck the next batter out on 3 wicked sharp pitches. The crowd cheered wildly. Okay, they didn’t go wild bonkers, but they definitely startin’ ta feel th’ itch of a momentum switch. Joe threw a fast ball down low. Larry Johnson, the man at bat, hit it high for a pop-up to shallow centerfield.

Now our gang figured out whoever caught that ball would most likely be the hero of the game, because of putting out one and throwing out another, thus ending the inning without letting the game get completely out of hand. They knew that the big league scouts were watching this game, and impressing them was for many of our young players more important than winnin’ or losin’. So all of our outfielders, plus the shortstop ,’n’ second baseman came rushin’ in ta catch that blasted ball.

All five of ‘em screamed “MINE!” and not nary a one heard the others. They were all looking way up in the air for that crazy pop-up, so none of them saw the others. And so then, yep, you guessed it. CRASH! All five of ‘em…out cold! Time becomes all messed up and the ball jes’ seems to slowly float ta the ground, landing right in between them with a soft kerplunk.

For a few seconds, everybody who wasn’t unconscious jes’ looked at it, stunned down to their toes. Even the base runners were petrified. Not a sound was heard in the entire park. After an unknown period of time, immeasurable because the clock had been forgotten, the manager shook out of it and yelled, “RUN, you idiots, RUN!”

The runners, startled by their master’s voice, realized what was happening and started pushing towards home. Brinks, frozen like a deer in headlights, noticed the runner’s movement, and woke out of his trance, rushing over to where the ball lay betwixt the inert five. By the time Brinks picked up the ball, two runs were in. He panicked and threw the ball wildly to the catcher. The catcher, still shocked by the sight of the crash, missed the wild throw, an’ the ball sailed back to the screen. Three runs in.

Trying to prevent the last run from crossing home, Joe rushed in ta the plate, awaitin’ the catcher’s throw. The catcher groggily took the ball from the clutches of the backstop screen and threw it high to Joe. He leaped high an’ made a phenomenal grab. “Course there was only one thing to do. An’ that was to come down. Which he did. Right on top of the runner’s ol’ belly. “Safe!” called out the umpire. The runner pulled himself out from under Joe and laughed all the way to the dugout. Joe sat on home plate, put his face into his hands, and began to cry like a baby. I have to admit, that was probably the most terrifyin’ part of the whole incident, watchin’ ol’ Joe melt down. The crowd booed wildly, an’ the opposing team laughed lustily.

During the entire ruckus, the bullpen didn’t say a word. Nobody even breathed. Finally the silence was broken when the bullpen coach looked to the sky and softly said, “God, why us?”

And then he selected a sub for Joe. Poor Joe. While our unconscious quintet began to stir and moan, carried off in stretchers, poor Joe had to be carted off the field squalling like a temper-tantrummin’ toddler.



By the bottom of the ninth we had closed the gap to four runs. They were ahead 15 to 11. We had only two fielders and two pitchers (me an’ a young rookie who was the fourth starter) who had not yet played.

In the bottom of the ninth, Brinks hit a bases-loaded home run (his second of the game). The crowd dreamed of pennants. The players dreamed of more money and whiffs of the major league.

The tenth inning was pretty dry. Six batters went up and six batters went down. I can’t tell you what happened in the eleventh inning, or for that matter the twelfth, thirteenth or top of the fourteenth, ‘cause ta tell you the truth, I took a short excursion to sleepy town.

When I woke up, they were ahead 17 to 15. We needed two runs to tie up and three to win.

The first man up was the pitcher. I was surprised to find out it was that young rookie. But the youngin’ watched the pitches carefully and escaped with a walk. The next man up struck out. Binky Davis, our leading hitter (.362 average), hit a single, puttin’ the rookie at second an’ Binky at first. The next man his a deep sacrifice fly, deep enough to advance both runners.

Now everybody started a’whooping an’ a’hollering, ‘cuz they knew what was a’comin’ next. Brink was waiting on the on-deck circle. Jes’ as he was getting ready to come up to bat, the coach called ‘em back for a conference.

Now, I don’t know x’actly what happened next. People tell me the clod tripped over his own feet coming out of the dugout. Before I could absorb what was happening, our bullpen coach got a call.

Lem picked up the phone. “Hello, Sam.”

“But Sam, I only got one crummy guy who ain’t had a hit all year. I can’t recall if he’s ever actually hit the ball!”

I saw terror in Lem’s eyes. “But Sam, he’s stanky!”

Lem looked a cornered rabbit. “Ya mean we ain’ts got no choice?”

Once again, Lem turned his eyes skyward. “Oh, God, why us?”

Lem turned towards me. His eyes were watery. He pointed towards home plate. He struggled to make a sound. “You!”

“M-m-me?”

“YOU!”


I slowly stepped out of the bullpen and onto the playing field. The batboy handed me a bat. I walked slowly to the plate. I heard the announcer.

“Smith Landers pinch-hitting for Brink Satterfield.”

I had never heard a crowd change mood so fast, from hail the hero cheering to lynch mob jeering. I though I was going to get stoned to death.

Why me? In all my minor league career, I had only been to bat seven times. Six were strikeouts, and the seventh was a popup that hit the umpires head an’ I was thrown out of the game (probably shouldn’t been laughing at him so hard).

The third base coach came over and told me just to try for a walk.

So I did. I jes’ stood there at the plate. Strike one.

The catcher derisively said, “C’mon, Larry, dis guy’s jes up here for a walk.”

Wise guy. So I decided to swing at the next pitch. I thought if I just pictured nice things, I would hit it. I thought of winning the pennant, the major leagues, more money and a big-screen TV. By the time I was done thinking he had already thrown a pitch. Ball one.

Ooops. I decided I better listen to the third base coach. Strike two.

I was mad. I was determined to bonk it out of the park. The pitcher wound up. So did I. He threw. I swung. CONTACT!

Now I started to run like heck ‘cuz I knew I don’t hit far. But then I realized from the crowd reaction that I must have hit it pretty far. I rounded first as fast as I could. I stretched towards second. As I scorched past second, I heard the voice of the shortstop.

“Hey, nice going buddy, ya hit a home run!”

I slowed to look at the fences. I couldn’t believe it. “I did?”

“Nope.” And then that lying bugger tagged me out.

They scored another run in the fifteenth and beat us 18 to 17.



Now I’ve been cut from the team, ‘n’ I don’t know if’n I’ll ever get to play professionally again. But, y’know, I can’t bellyache too much. Overall, baseball was very good ta me. I got to go to a lotta places, I met a lotta great people, there were as many victories as losses (well, almost), an’ I didn’t get stuck in a low-payin’ warehouse job like my Daddy did. I guess the moral of the story is, if’n there is one, the next time someone tells what a great job yer doin’, make sure they ain’t hiding a ball behind their back.