In his short “Let’s Go to the Videotape” (found in Guys Write for Guys Read), Dan Gutman states that everyone has at least one mental video tape of something they did that was incredible or unbelievable that will replay over and over and over in their minds. I disagree. I think that each of us possesses, if you will, a personal highlight reel of these amazing couldn’t-have-been-scripted events. And now, in the age where technological advances are outdated the day they’re released, we edit and re-master and restore these images brighter and better with each retelling.
One such story in which I played a role happened when I was twelve. I pitched and played first base for the Braves in the 11 and 12-year-old league on Lakenheath AFB, where I lived in England. Our team had enjoyed a fairly successful season—first place, only a handful of losses, four of us (including me) selected to the all-star team. I could spin a few more stories to relive Sandlot-esque glory, but this one is a legend.
At the beginning of the season, a donut store opened its doors beyond the left field wall. Instantly it became a team favorite. Forget juice boxes and orange slices. Boston creams and raspberry filled with powdered sugar were how we rolled after games.
For some reason, business went poorly for the shop after its opening; and to promote sales or something that I didn’t understand as a smelly, pubescent ballplayer, they started a promotion that I will never forget: if your ball hits the store during a live game, not BP, not a pick-up game, but rather a live game, you got a baker’s dozen of your choice. In my mind it was simple: homer to left equals free donuts.
I don’t remember the score of this particular game late in the season, but we were absolutely demolishing the opposing team. They were on their fourth or fifth pitcher of the game and we kept pounding out the hits. I was hitting clean-up and already had a handful of RBIs. We had two runners on and our number three hitter (I think it was Sam), jacked a line-drive over the left field wall and tagged the base of the donut store. We were elated! Free donuts! Then I stepped up and drilled the next pitch smack off the wall of the donut shop. Our next hitter (Matt?) proceeded to show us all up by cranking his shot to the roof of the shop. The fans went nuts. I think the game was called after that, but who knows? We were busy celebrating and piling on top of each other on home plate before he rounded third. Only twelve-year-olds would celebrate 39 free donuts more than winning the league championship.
Every spring I get the itch to take BP or play long toss, even though I’m more of a “ball player than an athlete,” to borrow a phrase from John Kruk. Without fail, as my kids start warming up for their T-ball games and I fill out the line-ups, I start to relive the “glory days” of my ten-year baseball career. And the back-to-back-to-back donut jack will forever hold a permanent spot on my highlight reel.
