Opening day and days on the diamond

Opening day of baseball season is marked by excitement, anticipation and wonder. Sitting in the stands on opening day is magical. Teams are fresh. Fans are hopeful. The grass is greener. The sky is bluer.

It sparks memories. 

I remember as a boy looking forward with confidence to following my hero, Pete Rose, and knowing he was going to hit above .300 again. I was sure my beloved Cincinnati Reds would win their division, the playoffs and the World Series. 

It marked the time when all the kids in our neighborhood, and there were a lot, began our nightly rituals of gathering for games Fridays and Saturdays. Come summer, we would stay out until well after dark, pitching, batting, running and shouting under the streetlights just outside our homes until a neighbor would holler at us to quiet down and get to bed. 

Growing up, I thought I would be a Major League Baseball player. Problem was, I couldn’t hit the curve. Or the fastball. Or slow ball. Or any ball, for that matter. 

My inglorious career in Little League baseball was brief. Most of it, I can’t recall. But there were moments when I had my day in the spotlight. Well, perhaps not the spotlight. Let’s say I managed to make a few plays, get a big hit or pitch a good game. They were few, which explains why I can remember them. 

I recall playing third and taking a position well back of the base, like Brooks Robinson, known as the “Human Vacuum Cleaner” for his excellent fielding. My coach noticed this. “Buley, what are you doing? Move up in front of the base.” 

I did.  

The batter promptly bunted the ball my way. I charged in, scooped it up barehanded and threw him out. My coach nodded.

Once when I was at shortstop, the batter hit a line drive up the middle. I figured I had no chance at it but ran to my left and stuck my mitt out. The ball miraculously bounced into it and I made the throw to first. It was beautiful.

Second was my usual position. I made more errors than anyone, so I’m not sure why. I do recall a time a batter blooped a ball into short right center. I took off running full steam, glanced back and up, and made a basket catch like Willie Mays in the 1954 World Series. Everyone remembers Willie's catch, but not mine.

For a 12-year-old, I pitched often because I had good control and actually threw fairly hard. I once tossed a five-inning no-hitter in a game called early because we were up by more than 10 runs. My oldest sister, Mary Louise, hearing about it, gave me a card with a smiling giraffe I still have it to this day: “No-hitter! Congratulations on your great game. The next Vida Blue!” 

Never did manage to match Vida and his17-3 record at the All-Star break.

And then there was “The Double.” 

Trailing 2-1 going into the last inning of a game we had to win to make the playoffs, I came up to bat with a man on first. I still can see the pitch coming in, high and outside, and I stood like a statue. Suddenly, surely an act of God, I swung, sending a fly ball down the right field line. It fell just fair, I slid safely into second and the runner scored. 

A few pitches later, the next batter hit a liner into left center and I came around to score. I was greeted in the dugout by happy teammates and for once I felt special, almost a hero and that perhaps I could play this game like Pete Rose. 

It didn’t last. 

The playoff game started well. I scooped up a grounder at second base and threw out the first batter. That was my highlight. Wearing boots because my baseball cleats pretty much fell apart, I made a bunch of errors and was finally pulled from the game. As I sat in the dugout, embarrassed, I recall a priest from our school sitting in the stands saying, “What’s the matter Buley? Those grounders too hot for you?” 

I had no response.

Funny how those words stuck with me.

While my baseball career fizzled, my love for the game, for Rose and the Reds, and later Ken Griffey, remained.  

While I'm no longer a diehard fan, I look forward to a road trip to watch the Seattle Mariners at T-Mobile Park, sitting in the stands, feeling the sunshine and hearing the crack of the bat.

I'm hoping a foul ball comes my way and this time, I make the play.

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at bbuley@cdapress.com.