I don’t like to brag, but I did something on the baseball diamond in Oakville this weekend that few major leaguers could probably say they’ve done — not that they would ever boast such a feat.
It was the Ol’ Man Memorial All-Indian Wood Bat Tournament at Tomahawk Stadium, and I broke two bats on two swings, in consecutive at bats.
And in four at bats, the pair of cracks were the only times I made contact with the ball. They would turn out to be my final plate appearances of the annual event — and most likely ever.
Yup... Sweet spot it wasn’t. And bitter it was, for the bats’ owners at least.
In case you’re not in accordance with this pastime, these well-crafted chunks of lumber are not cheap. They often carry loads of sentimental value with their respective guardians, who watch in angst as careless batters like me, apparently, swing away with them like a child with an icicle.
“Aw man, that bat was a gift,” and, “I bought that bat three years ago and hit three homers with it; it was my baby,” ran almost concurrently from the mouths of my two Willie’s Sport Shop teammates in the dugout — after my bat-cracking infield pop-out helped the rival Puyallup’s snare our spirit, 4-2, as we had taken a previous beating, 13-0, from Little Boston to start the double-elimination tourney.
I was unaware of both occurrences until that moment. What was I to say?
“Bust out the carpenter’s glue?”
“Here, take this month’s rent?”
“Sorry for a performance that may inspire Rowan Atkinson to star in a ‘Bean in the Big Leagues’ flick?”
I didn’t have a response, and the window for immediate apology had passed. I just sat there, wallowing in the sorrow of an ability that had all-but-evaporated with seven years of inactivity, after I tracked my stat line to:
0 for 2, BB, HBP, OBP .750 (I dug for something positive).
And it wasn’t just the batting, either.
It was the foot-first Lambeau Leap during an attempt to steal second base.
It was the unsuccessful head-first slide into home that would have had Pete Rose changing his comparative last name over, had he witnessed.
It was the routine throws that ran out of gas en route.
A lot of things factored into the buffoonery that was my rebirth to — and subsequent exit from — the sport I once dedicated a decade to.
And, needless to say, the ruffling of feathers wasn’t the ideal swan song, especially for a guy that so brilliantly deceived his teammates with a web gem in left field to start the tournament. Nor was it a popular ending for the Chehalis Tribal team that had earned nothing but gold three years running, I had heard from our skipper.
No first-place vests this time, boys. Two-and-out — a finish that made the dynasty die nastily.
Baseball? You Mean Softball?
Having played in a few last name softball tournaments on my home reservation, I was flabbergasted when I was heard that these Indians play hardball.
“Come play a game,” they told me.
It hadn’t even occurred to me that people would do that, so I asked the first native I saw, Chehalis tribal member Giles Youckton, why they kept playing and the others on the east side of the state went right into softball.
“We was beatin’ ‘em too bad,” he said, making a group of players erupt in laughter, and temporarily demoralizing me.
I had to light the fire by relaying that message to some of those apparent ‘sissy’ softballers, and this is what I got.
“They probably just switched because no one else plays baseball anymore,” Colville Tribal member Joel Boyd said. “Just so they can win something for once.”
After digging more into it, I found out that the game of softball — while being admittedly less manly — offers a heck of a lot more tournaments, with higher achievable regard.
Because who wouldn’t choose to win an NISA Native American World Series Softball Tournament over traveling up and down the coast, playing hardball for more local recognition than anything?
It’s still a toss up for me: underhand or overhand; slow pitch or a potential concussion; neon yellow boulders or pale white bullets.
That’s right, I retired with good reason. I’ll let them settle it.
Cary Rosenbaum II is a sports reporter for The Chronicle. He is an enrolled member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, and a graduate of both Inchelium High School and Eastern Washington University. He can be reached by phone at (360)807-8230 or by e-mail at crosenbaum@chronline.com.
