CAMERON COLUMN: A couple of pitchers come full circle

Serendipity.

There was a movie by that title, a rom-com that I really enjoyed. And a good thing, too, because it would have been awful if Hollywood had ripped off my favorite word and made a hash of things.

Here’s the actual definition of “serendipity” from the Merriam-Webster dictionary:

“The faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for...”

That sounds OK, as far as it goes, but I tend to embrace a far broader meaning. I believe that serendipity more or less defines our lives — and sometimes even our loves.

If your car hadn’t broken down, you wouldn’t have stopped in the diner where you met a future business partner — the guy whose ideas made you millions.

If you’d stayed home with that cold instead of going to your cousin’s party, you’d never have met that person with whom you’ve shared your life.

YOU GET the picture, right?

Now I’m going to tell you about serendipity that’s so far out there, you might think this is all a great big fib.

We’re running a feature in today’s paper about Wally and Kathy Bunker, and that thing is long enough that I certainly don’t need to add anything, except...

When I was 13 years old and playing baseball for St. Dunstan’s School in the Peninsula Catholic League (in the suburbs just south of San Francisco), we had to beat rival St. Bruno’s to win the league championship.

St. Dunstan’s was in the town of Millbrae, and not surprisingly, St. Bruno’s was in San Bruno.

But the first thing you should remember here is that the towns abutted each other and the two high schools — Mills and Capuchino — were distinct rivals. Millbrae folk like me enjoy reminding Capuchino grads (Wally Bunker comes to mind) that three of the four streets bordering Cap are in Millbrae.

So there.

Back to baseball: I was a sneaky sort of left-handed pitcher who didn’t have all that much velocity — more on that shortly — but I had different pitches and assorted release points that fooled hitters and, well, I could get guys out.

The problem in that championship game was that we were facing a seventh-grader who was big for his age and threw so hard that, even in baseball-mad California, he was positively scary.

Yes, of course...

Wally Bunker.

The game started with a bang, literally. Bunker hit our leadoff batter, Joe Scheid, smack in the head with his very first pitch — and it sounded like a cannon shot.

Scheid dropped to the dirt, our parents and fans started screaming (he could have been dead, as hard as Wally threw the ball), and since these were lunatic adults, there might have been a riot.

Fortunately, Joe was alive and managed to wobble off to first base.

Fast forward: We didn’t score (predictably), I took the mound for the bottom of the first inning, quickly disposed of the first two hitters and found myself staring at Bunker in the batter’s box.

Did I mention that baseball out there is probably about four years ahead of comparable play in other states, with the seriousness to match?

No?

Well, take that into consideration as you hear that, without a second thought or the slightest hesitation, I promptly hit Bunker square in the back with THAT first pitch.

NOW A riot became a serious possibility.

Wally yelled something out at me and I hollered back that at least I didn’t throw at his damn head.

(Yes, this was grammar school…California version.)

Happily, order was restored.

Unhappily, we lost 4-2.

And that was that.

I faced Wally a couple more times, without all the dramatics, but with one of my own father’s most hilarious statements.

We were hooked up in a summer league game, scoreless after four or five innings, and I walked over to a drinking fountain that happened to be right behind home plate — where my folks sat whenever I pitched.

My father was super-savvy about sports, and I said: “Dad, I’m throwing as hard as Wally, aren’t I?”

The reply: “Sure, you’re throwing just as hard. The ball just isn’t going as fast.”

IN MOST life situations, we’d laugh about that together, you and I, and my memory of Wally Bunker, his great wife Kathy and our hometown baseball antics would be forgotten, right?

Except for serendipity...

While I ultimately went off to a high school an hour away, then to college and the Air Force, Wally became a national story.

Just one year removed from Cap High, he won 19 games for the Baltimore Orioles as all of us former homeys followed along via newspaper and TV.

Then somehow, after my military stint (which took me to Kansas), I stayed in the area as a sports journalist — and in fact, I was present for the Kansas City Royals’ first game.

And in the clubhouse afterward, I found myself walking up to the starting pitcher, Wally Bunker, and saying: “You probably don’t remember me, but...”

OK, that’s light serendipity.

Now for the real thing: Here we are 45 years after THAT scene, and I discover that Wally and Kathy are in Coeur d’Alene — so of course with all they’ve accomplished, The Press needed a feature story.

So once again, this time via cell phone, I hear myself saying to Wally Bunker, “You probably don’t remember me, but...”

I’M SORRY, but now we’re in serious serendipity territory.

And when I meet (sorry, re-meet) the Bunkers in their lovely historic home, things just go on and on and on.

Kathy Bunker’s maiden name was Kathy Wild, and suddenly I realize that I vaguely knew Kathy and her sister, Sherry, because they grew up in Millbrae — NOT San Bruno, despite all the national stories about Wally marrying his high school sweetheart — and furthermore, the Wilds lived about three blocks from us.

And their family owned the local bowling alley. We knew all the same places and shared memories of so many familiar places.

The serendipity just keeps going.

One of my claims to fame from high school days was that I went on a couple of dates with a stunning girl named Suzanne Mahoney.

That’s noteworthy because Suzanne ultimately married the shortstop from my Babe Ruth League team, Bruce Somers, and later turned up on television (and everywhere else) as superstar Suzanne Somers.

On my way out of the Bunkers’ home last Saturday, I happened to mention my dates with Suzanne because it dawned on me that Wally probably knew her — and discovered for the first time, after all these years and multiple reunions, that Wally grew up NEXT DOOR to Suzanne.

Will this ever stop?

I probably should go to one of those ancestry sites or something.

My God, maybe I’m related to Wally.

Or Kathy.

Or both.

When you’re talking serendipity, you just never know.

•••

Steve Cameron is a special assignment reporter for The Press. Reach Steve at scameron@cdapress.com.