That Day We Almost Met a Hall of Famer
That Day We Almost Met a Hall of Famer
By JD Clapp
Rolo was cheating as usual, using Vaseline to make the wiffle ball dance when he threw a knuckle curve. After whiffing on a slow-moving pitch that moved like a drunken pigeon, I threw down the thin plastic yellow bat and charged the mound—really, the curb across the street—and wrestled the hat from his greasy dome. Petroleum jelly covered the underside of the brim. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was a freaking Dodgers hat. Who the fuck lives in San Diego and loves the Dodgers? That dumb shit had never even been to LA!
“I didn’t do it! It’s Rene’s hat!” Rolo protested.
Rolo’s younger brother Rene was the neighborhood’s scapegoat. Baseball busted your car window? Rene did it. A few beers went missing from somebody’s dad’s garage fridge? Rene did it. Dog shit on your front lawn? Rene…
“Cheater! You forfeit!” I cried.
The argument escalated as the other kids from our neighborhood chimed in. Just then, Rene yelled and pointed, “Dave Winfield!” We all stopped and looked up at the Runges’ house. Sure enough, I looked up and there he was, all 6’6” and 215 pounds of muscle of him. Dave Winfield, Padres superstar. Dave the rave, San Diego baseball god in the flesh. The future Hall of Famer was walking up the Runges’ long driveway.
Now, it wasn’t uncommon to see famous retired baseball players visit our neighbor, retired American League umpire, Ed Runge. But current Padre players, especially superstar players, were something new. We wanted to be a part of this.
Ed was famous and probably the coolest neighbor a kid could have. He had lifetime season tickets to the Padres, four rows right behind home plate, and was always giving them to the neighborhood kids. He had old-school pinball machines in his pool house, a large swimming pool, and he’d invite us over to swim and play the machines. Hell, he would even order pizzas for us. Ed was always handing out swag too—autographed balls and bats, t-shirts, team photos, and for some reason, RCA records meant for radio stations. We loved him!
Unfortunately, one neighborhood kid, Randy, had somehow wrangled pet status with Ed and got first dibs on everything. Randy was one of those kids (every neighborhood had one) who had it all. His family lived in the biggest, nicest house, he was tall and handsome, and a great athlete. At 15, he looked like a frat president. And there he was, coming out of Ed’s house, walking down the driveway to meet Dave Winfield. He waved at us smugly with a shit-eating grin. We fucking hated Randy.
“I’m going over there and inviting us all in,” Rene said, marching off to Ed’s front door.
We watched Rene walk up the drive, climb the steps to the front door, and proceed to ring the bell 25 times, then pound on the frame of the aluminum screen. Rolo and I laughed our asses off, ducked behind my dad’s 1975 baby blue Dodge Dart, watching. Ed opened the door and said something to Rene, then shut the door in his face. Rene came back down to deliver the sad news.
“We ain’t invited. Mr. Runge said we might get Dave to sign autographs when he leaves.”
I’m not exactly sure who came up with the idea, but we collectively decided it was time to wipe that smug grin off Randy’s pretty-boy face. So, we waited patiently sitting on the curb across and just up the street. Who knows how long we waited, but it seemed like a long time.
“I bet they got pizza,” one of us speculated.
“Dave’s probably doing cannonballs in the pool,” another kid offered.
“I bet Dave will let that shithead Randy sit in the dugout at the all-star game,” Rolo speculated.
We were getting worked up when the door finally opened, Randy came out first, followed by Dave. Thankfully, Ed shut the door as they left. When Randy and Dave got to Dave’s car, we did it. In unison, we stood, turned around, dropped trou, and mooned Dave Winfield and our boy Randy.
“You suck, Dave,” Rene yelled.
“Kiss our asses, Randy! Dodgers rule, Dave!!” Rolo added.
Neither of them said a word, Dave looked dumbfounded. Randy turned bright red.
With no real endgame planned, we simply pulled up our pants and walked back to Rolo’s to listen to the new Cheap Trick album. Ed never said a thing about the incident, Randy avoided us for the rest of the summer, and Dave made the all-star game that year (it was in San Diego and Randy was his guest).
In retrospect, Randy was probably simply more polite, a little less street urchin than the rest of us. He certainly was less likely to embarrass Ed by asking people like Dave for free shit, or inappropriate questions like, “Dave, how much do you make?” or “Dave, have you ever nailed Cindy Garvey?’
I recently heard a rumor that he went on to be an attorney and agent to several professional baseball players, but I haven’t bothered to look that up. Wouldn’t surprise me though. Not one bit. And if it’s true, good on you Randy. Seriously. I’m glad it all worked out for you, and I’m sure you treasure those childhood memories of rubbing elbows with legends.
As for me, over the course of my 60 years, I’ve met famous politicians, Hollywood actors, even a rockstar or two. And honestly, who the fuck cares? I certainly don’t. I do, however, care a whole lot about being able to fondly look back on those summer days as a kid, playing wiffle ball and doing all the other shit kids can’t or won’t do anymore. Best of all, memories like mooning Dave confirm I’ve been pretty true to myself over all these years; once an irreverent, cheeky SOB, always.
And for the record, Rolo remained a cheating bastard for his entire wiffle ball career.
JD Clapp lives in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, Bristol Noir, Revolution John, and numerous others. In 2023, he was a Pushcart nominee in nonfiction, and had a fictional story selected as a finalist in the Hemingway Shorts, Short Story competition. He is a regular contributor to Poverty House.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.