Dirty Pants

As the umpire made his slow walk, intent on breaking up the mound visit and sending Winchester's pitching coach back to the dugout, I hopped from the coaching box toward the on-deck circle, set on sharing a last minute word of encouragement with Anders.  I patted the middle of his back with my open hand. "Let's go bro, neeja here!  C'mon, Break it open."  

"Yessir."

"Alright let's go, men," shouted the ump as he approached the huddle around the pitching rubber; two claps and the coach turned and loped back to the dugout tugging the brim of his cap and scanning the bullpen for action.  

One parting swat on the butt from me and Anders was headed back to the plate, hopefully to drive in some runs.  Yep, I swat butts.  My college coach once told me that the trick to coaching was to know who to kick in the butt, who to pat on the butt and who to leave alone.  And while I know coach was speaking figuratively about the makeup of a team, a unique acceptability exists for coaches patting guys on the butt.  When I slapped Anders on his butt that night, that was the first I noticed the dirty wallet-sized lump in his back pocket of his uniform.

Now, Anders was always dirty from the time he got to the field until the moment he left.  Most of the other guys would come showered and arrive in their shiny cars or jacked up trucks: Zack Blakney drove a white Beemer, and John Luke Jacobs a new Expedition, but Anders arrived on bicycle, pedaling up the gravel road, sweating through his undershirt.  

His batting practice routine was equally filthy.  During BP Anders fielded every ground ball like he was making a play in game seven of the World Series.  Most guys use that time to "warm up"- you know, take a few ground balls at half speed, get stretched out by the trainer, or discuss escapades from the night before.  Not Anders.  Anders would dive in the hole between short and third, wearing only his shorts and  tee shirt,  then hop up feigning a throw to first base before seeing the next ball hit at him.  He would come and get slow rollers on the fly with batting practice balls whizzing by his head, and of course Anders would practice his unprecedented front roll double play feed.  Moving to his left and toward the second base bag, Anders fielded the ball while tucking his head into the beginning of a front somersault, transferred the ball to his hand mid roll and flipped it to the covering 2nd baseman, all before popping up to his feet to the stupefied reaction of his coaches and teammates - who by now stopped everything they were doing to watch this circus act. I never saw anyone make the plays he made, and when opposing teams hit a ground ball anywhere near the left side of the infield, we'd just chalk it up as an out.

His dingy off-white pants were brand new and shiny when I issued them to him back on Memorial Day.  I am convinced he washed them every night, but there was no chance that those pants were ever coming clean again.  To top it off, the field was a soggy mess in the grass areas from where we dumped the tarp earlier.  Most of the dirt areas were firm, with the exception of a few sticky spots we'd since doused with Turface to dry them in preparation for the game.  Following the standard pregame routine, field prep, plate conference, introductions and anthem it was time to play ball.  Our pitcher heaved his warm ups to the plate and Tommy Johnson fired a throw to second base and Anders' floppy mitt gloved it, he flipped it to Danny Pirillo who continued it around the horn.  As my ritual "Here we go, boys," shouted from the dugout, I saw it.  Anders bent down, scooped a handful of dirt into his palm, squeezed it into a ball and shoved it into his pants pocket.  These guys are all quirky but this is crazy; having a good luck charm or a batting glove or some other talisman was perfectly normal in the game of baseball, but a pocketful of dirt?  What the hell is he doing?

After three quick outs, I met our pitcher coming off the field with a knuckle pound and his usual pat on the butt, then turned to find Anders tossing his glove towards the dugout and running to the bat rack. "Bro, come here; wha's up with the dirt in your pocket?"

"Ah, well you see coach, I um, like to have dirt in my hand because it helps me grip the ball, and since there is rain in the forecast, I wanted to make sure that I always have some dry dirt, so I just put it in my pocket."

Anders continued on scurrying around the dugout, hat, helmet, bat, pine tar, and I stood staring, smirking, arms up in disbelief, looking around the dugout for someone who could corroborate what I had just heard.  "Is he freakin crazy?"  

The pitcher keeping the chart next to me in the dugout looked up, smirking in return, and with scrunched up shoulders said, "nah coach,  that's not crazy, that's just Anders."

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Paul Koch (@pkoch9999)

http://dugahole.blogspot.com/

+151 1692-2787