The Little League team was good. Really good. The nine mop-haired, lanky boys, clad in classic ‘70s harvest-gold uniforms, were undefeated this season. They had a shot at the pennant.
But then, devastation.
Their first baseman was sliding into home when he broke his shin in two places. Doctors operated. Wired his bones back together. The boys all signed his cast. Unless they could find a replacement, it was goodnight Irene.
The coach held tryouts. The whole team gathered. Every boy was anxious to find a new player who kick some proverbial posterior.
Two boys auditioned that afternoon.
The first was tall and strong. Square-jawed. Looked like he’d been shaving since age three. He was a natural athlete, wiry and agile, an RBI machine. Just wind him up and let him go.
The audition should have been over right then and there. But it wasn’t.
The second boy got his shot, too.
His name was Arnold. He was small, awkwardly built, and he walked funny. Arnold suffered from polio as a baby. He lifted the pantlegs of
his blue jeans to reveal metal braces.
“Braces?” the coach remarked. “You can’t run with those, son.”
“I can, sir,” the boy replied
So, the coach put him through drills. True to his word, the kid could run with the braces. He was slow. His gait looked more like skipping than running, almost like a strange dance. But he was doing it.
Next, the coach put Arnold in the infield.
Arnold missed half the balls hit to him, but he dove in the dirt, without care of injury, leapt as high as he could, and sprinted until he fell over and got mouthfuls of dust. Arnold showed more hustle than 50 boys his age.
Then, it was time for hitting. The tiny boy stood at the plate. Bat held at his ear. Out of breath from exertion. His little shirt was drenched.
That’s…
