OUCH!!! or Baseball Hurts

By Glenn Stout

And they say football is dangerous.

Now that I’m entering the later innings, let me tell you, the injuries have added up. Each morning every little ache and pain and scar is like looking at an old box score of my body. These days I generally start at my feet and work my way up the roster.

Right heel #1, 1970, age 11. Missed part of a season with a bone bruise. Those Converse All-Stars looked cool, but they were hell on the feet.

Right heel #2, 1996, age 38. While playing Men’s Senior League Baseball, my right Achilles started bothering me - like “bring me to tears” bothering me. Kept playing and developed a calcium deposit on the back of my heel, and now my right foot is a half-inch longer than my left. Makes shoe buying fun.

Left ankle, 1972, age 13.The first year I was allowed to wear genuine metal spikes. I’d read all about Ty Cobb and was a terror. Then, while sliding into third, I foolishly did not try to spike the third baseman. He jumped for a high throw and landed on my ankle, leaving two lovely diagonal puncture wounds. Since I’m allergic to tetanus shots, this was almost life threatening. Note to enemies: If you want to kill me, just stab me with a rusty nail.

Right knee, 1967, age 8. I’d slide into the three maple tree in the backyard that served as bases. You might notice that in the big leagues they don’t use trees as bases, probably because when you slide into trees, THEY DO NOT MOVE. This explains the small bend in my right leg.

Right hip, 1971, age 12. I liked to slide. A lot. In my last year of Little League I had a seeping open wound on my hip all season, and now a lovely circular scar.

Left hand, 1969, age 10. Went a whole season with a black and swollen left hand because I was a catcher and Jay Greiner threw harder than Sam McDowell. Our Little League coach finally gave me a falsie to put in my mitt, which didn’t really help, but inspired puberty and caused me to look at Jay’s sister. A lot.

Right elbow, 1970, age 11. My first year pitching, and my elbow would swell up like Sandy Koufax’s. But I was a gamer and Mom swathed it in ice after every game. Hitting other kids with pitches that caused them to quit baseball forever made it all worthwhile.

Right side, circa 1998, age 39. Got hit with a pitch in Senior League.  Shook it off.  Went home and almost threw up. It didn’t hurt, but the bruise on my right side was as big as a dinner plate and the color of concord grapes. Over the next few weeks it turned many other colors.

Left side and left elbow, 2001, age 41. My reflexes were starting to slip, and a one-hopper right back at me came off the baked earth like a howitzer. I pinned it between my elbow and my side, and threw the guy out, but it felt like I’d been folded in half. The stitches on the ball left a bruise on the inside of my elbow that dovetailed seamlessly into a bruise with more stitches on my ribs. Very attractive.

Right elbow, 2002, age 42. A broken limb on a tree in my backyard hung down like a guillotine. I put an eyelet in a ball, tied a rope to it, and threw it into the tree until it wrapped around the limb and I pulled it down. But that took about 200 throws. I strained my ulnar ligament and lost my curve ball.

Right shoulder, 1975, age 17. The Big One. After a summer in Australia as a foreign exchange student before my senior year, I played in a fall league, threw too hard too fast, and got a sore shoulder. I stole some leftover Percocet my brother had after his wisdom teeth were pulled and kept pitching. After a few games like this, after the pills wore off, I wanted to amputate my arm. The result? A Class-4 rotator tear.  Didn’t play baseball for the next 17 years, but did learn to comb my hair left-handed. Also started writing. See, IT’S ALL BASEBALL’S FAULT!!!

Right temple, 1966, age 8. First year of T-Ball.  We went undefeated, usually destroying the opposition by scores of 37-12, but before one practice some idiot discarded chunks of concrete block all over the field and we had to clear it off. As soon as our coach said “Don’t try to throw a chunk of concrete over the backstop,” Dave Mayer, our Aaron Judge, did just that. That chunk landed on my right temple and I went down like a cartoon character. I ended up with a concussion, a half-dozen stitches and a scar I’ve since used to track my receding hairline.

I’d do it all again. Except for the Percocet.

 

First published in Boston Baseball. Glenn Stout’s most recent book, with Richard Johnson, is the New York Times and Boston Globe best seller, The Pats.