Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 5

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 5

After Uncle Ernest slid from the seat to amble once again into the house, I just sat there enjoying the view of the countryside. Our swing faced west, and beyond our fairly large corn field, to the right of Dave Herman’s mammoth oak tree (which still stands, Nina, remind me to show it to you), our immense orange ball settled patiently and inexorably into the line of trees on the horizon.

The evening was coming to an end; it was enchanting, and as Uncle Ernest eased into the swing with the exaggerated softness of the infirm, I was anxious for him to continue his tale.

“Hey Unk, what did you and Ed do next?”

“Well, Moose,” he replied, setting his drink down temporarily between his legs on the empty seat, “what happened next is pretty incredible. Next to the bar where we heard that bouncy piano music was a large field. I mean it was huge, probably several acres or so. As we strolled past the field we heard somebody, yelling so we looked over and saw a guy standing by a wire backstop with a baseball in his right hand and a baseball bat in his left hand. He was yelling, ‘Hey, youse guys! Come the crap over here, will ya?’

“When we walked over we saw that he was a big guy wearing a funny-looking cap and knickers. He was young, about fourteen or fifteen, had a broad, flat nose, and thick lips. As we walked up to him I could see a determined look in his eyes. Bouncing the ball off his biceps playfully, he said, ‘Do ya wanna have some fun?’ When Ed and I nodded, the kid asked me if I was right handed.

“When I said I was he said, ‘All right, then, you pitch to me, and you, Shorty,’ patting Ed on the shoulder, ‘run out into right field and shag the flies.’ Well, Moose, Ed scampered out about 300 feet and I climbed the mound with the bucket of balls that the kid had. Luckily, I had a good arm at the time, sometimes firing that apple over ninety miles an hour.

“The kid was left handed and stood up to the plate looking goofy in that cap and knickers. Now, I had pitched some good hard ball in my younger days, and thought that this kid was a real turkey. ‘Why, he won’t touch a ball I throw,’ I thought. I’ll tell you what, Moose; he really fooled me. There must have been twenty five balls in that bucket, and that kid hit the first one far, far over Ed’s head. Ed had to go back another 200 feet or so to catch the booming shots he hit.

“I couldn’t believe it, because I was throwing really hard. I threw curves, drops, screwballs, and some change-ups. It was always the same; he clobbered them all! We collected the balls and repeated this three or four times, until my arm wore out. Poor Ed was badly out of shape so he was really huffing and puffing.

“When we finished, I shook the kid’s hand and told him that with a bat like that he should try to get on an organized team somewhere. The kid grinned and said that some scout from Boston was supposed to come down to talk to his dad about signing him to a contract. He said that his dad owned the bar next door. By golly, Moose, I’ve seen some good hitters in my time, but I’ve never seen anyone ever hit a ball that far, so I’ll bet he was able to get on a team somewhere and make a few bucks.

“After we said so-long and were walking away, he waved and I called back, ‘By the way, kid, what’s your name anyhow?’ Still leaning on his bat he yelled back, ‘George, George Roof.’ So that tells us, Moose, that he never amounted to anything, because I’ve never heard of any ballplayer by that name. Have you?”

“Nope,” I answered. “He probably stayed on and took over his father’s liquor business.”  [To be continued Tuesday, 3/13/2012]