The Bouton Lesson

The Bouton Lesson

By Joe Di Bari

It was November of 1963. The cold Bronx was heating up as we were about to see two of my favorite Yankees. Joe Pepitone and Jim Bouton were appearing in the basement of our local church, Santa Maria. My uncle Al took us. Back then, not all families had a car and getting a ride in his brand-new black Galaxy 500 was an extra treat.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Uncle Al warned as he shifted into third gear. Al was familiar with players reneging on these public appearances. “DiMaggio was supposed to show when I was a kid. He never did.” Al shook his head, and I could tell the memory still hurt.

We sat in the third row, close enough to spit on the stage, and waited for the longest half-hour of my life. Finally, Bouton strutted out. The announcer introduced Jim and apologized for Pepitone’s absence. Jim fielded questions and was gracious. The Yankees were coming off a loss to the Dodgers in the World Series, so many of the questions dealt with the Yanks prospects for the next year.

My uncle pulled me closer, “Ask him how he felt after he lost that one run squeaker to Drysdale?”

I shot my hand into the air.

“The boy in the yellow shirt.” Jim pointed to me.

 I blurted out the question, being a naive eight-year-old. Immediately after the words left my mouth, I knew they were so wrong. It was reinforced by Uncle Al’s chuckle.

“Well, I tried my best.” Jim was compassionate and didn’t embarrass me any further.

I felt like crawling under the chair. Jim’s response always stuck with me through my playing career. I played all the way into my fifties, ending in the Capital District Senior Men’s League. Much to my surprise, on a road trip to Massachusetts, we were playing a team with a familiar name on their roster.

Jim Bouton pitched against us that day. It was lambs to the slaughter as he one-hit us. I did get a chance to pinch hit against him late in the game. I rubbed dirt on my hands and took a few practice swings as I eyed him up. I hate knuckleballs. It’s like hitting a grapefruit. I swung and missed at the first. The second was high and outside. The third was a hanger, no flutter. It was like hitting off a tee. I connected deep and long to centerfield. I wished I hit it more on the line as it wound up a warning track can of corn.

“Hey, Jim,” I called to him after the game.

“You almost got me,” he said as he shook my hand.

“Story of my life, almost.” I patted his shoulder. “Thanks for coming to Santa Maria to talk to us after the ‘63 World Series.”

He stared at me for about five seconds. It felt like five minutes. “Yellow shirt, right?”

“Yes, I asked that dumb question about losing to Drysdale.”

“Ha, you actually helped me. Every time a reporter asked me a stupid question, I remembered to control myself. The same way I reacted to your question. I kinda owe you, my friend.”

We shook again.

“Thanks Jim, I’ve always felt bad about that.”

I put my head down.

“No reason to, you were just a kid.”

“You could have taken it easy on us today, but I do remember what you said.”

“Always do your best.”

Jim smiled.

“Exactly.”

Joe Di Bari was born and raised in New York City. He taught in the Bronx and in Troy, NY. As you can imagine, he has a city voice. His books cover sports, romance, and time travel. Joe has been compared to Brown and Patterson, but he has his own style. He has also been published by 518 pub, the NYS Writers Institute, Owl Light News, Brava, and Capital District Poets Magazine. Besides the Beyond time travel series, he has published poems and songs. Check out his work at www.joedibari.com.