CARLTON FLETCHER: Baseball season brings sweet memories

Put me in coach, I’m ready to play.

— John Fogerty

Baseball’s a game that, once it gets in your system — usually at a young age — it never relinquishes its hold.

Some of the happiest times of my childhood were days that my dad, who worked hard at two back-breaking jobs, was able to spend time just throwing a baseball with me and talking about the finer points of the game. He’d played semi-pro ball, and some of my earliest memories were going to his games played on quaint neighborhood fields. He’s the one who gave me my love for America’s pastime.

At this time of the year, when Major Leaguers are playing spring games, colleges and high schools are just getting into their seasons, and Little Leaguers and T-ballers are starting practices, baseball is about as pure as it can be. And it’s usually at this time that two of my happiest memories re-emerge.

The first had to do with listening to Braves games with my dad and brother shortly after the team moved to Atlanta from Milwaukee. Hearing the announcers nightly sing the praises of men named Aaron, Niekro, Alou, Cepeda, Jones, Woodward, Upshaw and all the other mythical warriors allowed me to imagine them as gods among men, spending their professional lives engaged in battle on the hallowed ground of Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium.

We didn’t know what “vacations” were growing up, but there was always one magical weekend during which we’d drive up to McDonough, spend Friday night at a hotel — the five of us: mom, dad, my brother, my sister and me all in one room — go out to a restaurant for dinner and on Saturday, drive to the stadium. Our tickets were always in the upper decks, but that meant nothing to my brother and me. We might as well have been seated outside the Pearly Gates.

That yearly summer trip — we’d head home as soon as the game was over, filled to the brim for another year — is where my enduring love for baseball took root.

The second story is from my freshmen year at Irwin County High. Somehow, and I honestly don’t know what wizardry was at play, I made the ICHS baseball team as a freshman. All 115 pounds of me. And, as a freshman with abilities that were a couple of years from blossoming, I spent that whole season riding the bus and riding the pine.

It appeared my only memory from the season would be “freshman initiation,” a barbaric rite only high school athletes can ever legitimize. At Irwin County, the worst part of baseball initiation, which always came on the longest road trip of the season and only after a win, was the forced spread of a substance whose name on the container was “Atomic Balm” — we just called it “red hot” — onto parts of the anatomy that were not made to be subjected to something called Atomic Balm.

The gooey substance was used to soothe sore muscles through the spread of heat that may very well have matched its namesake nuclear weapon. At least it felt that way when the red hot came in contact with the aforementioned areas.

But I did get one other semisweet memory from that freshman year. Near the end of the season, one that ended with the Indians claiming a record around .500, we were playing one of the weaker teams on our schedule. The starters jumped out to a big lead and kept pouring it on. Those of us who’d spent the season on the bench dared dream that we might get a chance to get into a game.

In the sixth inning, our coach said some magic words that I’ll never forget: “Fletcher, get in there.”

Now I’d practiced all year in the infield, but coach was trying to get everyone playing time so he told me to go to right field, obviously thinking that’s where I’d likely do the least damage. I didn’t care. I was playing in a varsity baseball game.

I remember chatting like a myna bird, my squeaky 14-year-old voice and the terror of actually being on the field combining to make me sound about as ridiculous as anyone can imagine. But I didn’t care. I remember running like the wind to back up a throw to first base on the inning’s first out, and by the time we had two down, I’d relaxed a bit. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

The third batter hit a popup that — GULP! — was coming right for me. And I mean right on top of me, a mile, it seemed, in the air. I remember circling around like a drunk trying to find his bearings, and finally the ball that looked as tiny as an aspirin came down and plopped into my glove … and out, falling to the dirt. I remember my face burning like it had been doused with red hot as I grabbed that damnable ball and threw it — wildly — toward the infield.

We got out of that inning with no further damage — and no other balls hit to me — and I was beating myself up mentally when coach said something else I’ll never forget: “Fletcher, you’re up second.”

Playing in the field is one thing. Batting — mano a mano — against a real live pitcher was another. I came up to bat with no one on base, determined I would at least go down swinging. On the second pitch, I got a fastball on the outside part of the plate and whistled a shot back up the middle … into center field. A hit!

I never got past first base, and the game ended with no other excitement. A few days later, the season was over.

I ended up starting my other three years at ICHS, playing on a state championship team in 1973 and losing in the state finals in 1974. But that freshman year remains one of my fondest memories. And I can honestly tell any who will listen as we relive the old days: Yep, I batted 1.000 my freshman year … and fielded .000.

Email Carlton Fletcher at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @ABH_Fletcher.