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As i looked across the church pew at the kid that Sunday morning and thought “just another punk kid”. He had the look of one, and I didn’t really give him a second look, until the church picnic and the softball game, after the morning services. There is a reason they call the sport “Slow Pitch” softball, and as I now know, there are actual rules in place to keep it “slow pitch” softball. To paraphrase the rule, a “slow pitch” offering has to be at a certain height on it’s way to the plate. I want to say at least 8 foot at its highest point. If, in the opinion of the home plate umpire it doesn’t reach the 8 foot mark, the pitch is automatically called a ball. I know that now. It would have been a great piece of info to know at the time, but then if it were, I wouldn’t have a brush with greatness nor a bar room story to tell. You wouldn’t expect a church picnic to be a place to spin a sports yarn, but that’s where we find ourselves. It was a beautiful July day in 1992, and I am living on the Northwest coast of Florida. My brother-in-law was a Captain in the Air Force and he had invited me and my ex-wife to the church picnic, to be held on Hurlburt Field Air Force Base. Up until the softball game, the most memorable event that day was having my first taste of Shark. If you have never tried Shark meat, I highly recommend it. To me, it is to this day, the best fish I have ever eaten. For those who have a fear of Sharks, it gives you the added opportunity to extract some revenge on the fish at the source of your deep seeded fear. After raving about the taste of Shark, we were told that the softball game was about to commence. We wandered over to the softball field and started warming up. Being 29 and the aging athlete that I was, I immediately went to my old little league position at second base. I had taken a few ground balls when someone asked me to pitch a little batting practice. I agreed. As I took the mound, I asked for a few warmup tosses. I was told it was just practice and the call went out for a batter. That punk kid, who I could tell was up to no good earlier that morning in the church chapel, sitting there all quietly, plotting the evil he had in mind, stepped to the plate. I didn’t like him, not in the least (in the coming years, I would dislike him even more….but stay tuned, I will get to that). He was a combination of Vanilla Ice, Charles Manson and Saddam Hussein, all rolled up into one person. I could tell all of that just by looking at him. I’ve never been good at telling a persons age. If I were to witness a robbery, the best age I could give the police is between the age of 5 and 70. It has cost me a lot of friendships, especially with the ladies. Guys, from one man to another, when a woman asks you “How old do I look?”….DON’T ANSWER! She is looking for a fight. That being said, I guessed this punk kid couldn’t be older than 20. As he stepped to the plate, the first thought in my mind was “Brushback!”. But being raised the Baptist that I was, I didn’t figure inflicting bodily harm, on a 20 year old punk, at a church picnic, using a 5 inch round ball would be the thing God wants me to do. I dismissed the thought and threw my first pitch. The catcher never even had to move his glove. It was right down the middle. I waited for a “Good Pitch!” or a “Atta Boy Brian!”, but they never came. The only thing I heard was somebody yell “Get it UP!” “Get it up???” I thought to myself. “That pitch was right down the middle of the plate”. Then it dawned on me. This is softball, not baseball. Maybe they have a higher strike zone. I needed to get it up in the old wheelhouse and let my defense do the work. So the next few pitches were shoulder high on the 20 year old punk batter. He didn’t swing at any of them. This punk wasn’t even good enough to hit a softball. HE WAS NOTHING! Then he spoke those immortal words: “Will somebody get this clown off the mound?” I didn’t like this 20 year old punk the first time I laid eyes on him. I liked him even less at that moment. He knew nothing about swinging a bat and hitting a softball, and now he was making it personal by calling me a clown. You’ve heard of charging the mound? Well, I threw down my glove and charged the batters box. I informed this 20 year old punk kid, who could now be classified as a loudmouth 20 year old punk kid, just what I thought of his mothers sexual perversions. His eyes widened as he watched me storm towards him and it felt good to see that look of fear on his face. It was as if he had never heard of the perversions of which I was speaking. I was pulled back by my brother-in-law, who was playing first base at the time. He had heard the comment by the batter and knew I was about to cause a scene. I learned so many things that day. Most importantly was, as a guest of a US Air Force Officer, on a US military installation, HE would be held accountable for my actions as much as I would. So you can understand his urgency to keep me from this punk kid. Tempers flared on my part and I was quickly whisked away from the field, sat underneath a shade tree and given an ice cold lemonade to enjoy the softball game I was about to watch. After the picnic, I learned so many things. I learned about the “8 foot rule” in softball (which I understand now because the pitches I threw the punk kid, were no more than 4 feet off the ground, thus explaining the “GET IT UP!” order I was given). I learned about my brother-in-laws possible court martial from the US Air Force if I had hit that punk kid. I learned that sitting under a shade tree, watching a softball game, in the middle of Summer on Florida’s Gulf Coast is a damn fine way to spend a day. If only that were the end of what I were to learn. I also learned that the loudmouth 20 year old punk kid, was in actuality, a loudmouth 17 year old punk kid. I also found out that he was the son of the Air Force Chaplain who gave the Sunday message previously that morning. I would like to say the story ended there. But if it had, it wouldn’t be much of a story. About 2 weeks later, I went out one morning and picked up the Friday edition of the NORTHWEST FLORIDA DAILY NEWS. In it, was their FOOTBALL PREVIEW ISSUE, a special insert added to the paper, previewing local High School and College teams. There, staring at me from the cover of that insert, was that 17 year old punk kid. Seems as though my latest foe was the starting Quarterback on the Fort Walton Beach Viking football team. “HA!” I thought to myself. “I have more athleticism in my left hand that he has in his whole body” I surmised. It would be an honor and a privilege to see this buffoon fall flat on his face as he struggled to master the most important and complicated position in the game. This coming from the same guy (ME), who in 1977, after seeing the first STAR WARS movie trailer, proclaimed it as “going to be one of the worst movies ever made”. That 17 year old punk kid led the Vikings to a 15-0 record and the Florida class 4-A championship for 1992. After his state championship season, he was named the USA TODAY FLORIDA OFFENSIVE PLAYER OF THE YEAR (for the record, Derrick Brooks was named the Defensive player of the year), a slap in my face for almost beating the crap out of a 17 year old Chaplains kid. But my punishment from the almighty wasn’t over. This punk kid, son of an Air Force Chaplain, who I really wanted to pulverize at a church picnic softball game for calling me a clown, went to the University of Florida on a football scholarship, played for Steve Spurrier, went 3-0 as a starting quarterback against my Tennessee Volunteers, won the 1996 National Championship and Heisman trophy. That loudmouth 17 year old punk kid, who couldn’t hit a softball and would fall flat on his face as a quarterback was none other than Danny Wuerffel. In 1996, while watching Wuerffel beat Tennessee for the 3rd time, I was gifted with about 6 free beers from fellow Vol fans, for telling them this same story in a bar. Every time I see Wuerffel, even today, I picture a big scare on his face, a scar that I could have bragged about. But the intervention of God Almighty kept that from happening. I like to take some solace from the story. When Wuerffel was interviewed a couple of days before he signed with Florida, he mentioned he had narrowed his choices down to 4 schools: Florida, Notre Dame, Florida State and Tennessee. I pulled hard for him to choose UT, just so I could cheer for him. Could you imagine having him and Peyton Manning to chose from? GOD made his point. But since Wuerffel didn’t come to UT, he will always be that 17 year old punk kid.
Article Source: http://www.articlesfeed.com
volfan_brain is a big Tennessee Volunteers fan and engages in plenty of sports talk for sports fans at RootZoo.com. See more of his work there.
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