The 1 o'clock tiger

A 1 O’Clock Tiger, for those not privy to baseball parlance, is a guy who can hit like crazy in batting practice before the game (hence, 1 o’clock) but can’t connect during the actual game (games used to start at 2 o’clock).

My Little League career consisted of one year in the minor leagues. In my day, Little League was a three-tier system. Major Leagues got nice uniforms and snappy names from their corporate sponsors. To play in the majors, you had to be able to hit and field reasonably well.

The Minor League also got uniforms, but not quite so nice as the majors and had silly names. My team was the Uncle Milty’s, sponsored by Uncle Milty TV Repair and Sales. Minor League players were usually good at either fielding or hitting, not both.

I was an outfielder with an instinct for how to play a fly ball and a good throwing arm. I understood the fundamentals of backing up other fielders when the ball was in play. I could not hit to save my life. I was afraid of getting injured by a pitched ball.

At the bottom of the pile were the Farm Teams. They had caps, T-shirts with the team name and pathetic players. I did not realize it at the time, but these were probably the truest baseball fans. In spite of the humiliation of being a “Farmer,� they got out there and played just for the love of the game, improvised uniforms and all.

u      u      u

I dreaded getting up to bat. My best chance was to not swing and hope for a walk. I got a lot of walks. Sometimes I felt obligated to swing at a ball, just to keep the pitcher honest and to make it look like I was trying. I would close my eyes and swing hard, whiffing my bat through the air, then shake my head with disappointment, like I had seen the real ball players do. When it came time to go out in the field, I trotted out enthusiastically, confident in my ability.

I guess the odds say that if you swing enough times you will eventually hit the ball. It was finally my turn. I closed my eyes and took a mighty swing, connecting with a vengeance. The ball soared over the outfielders’ heads and off into the trees (no fences on Minor League fields). I had hit a home run, and a good thing, too. They had to remind me to run. I was just standing there in disbelief.  So was the coach.

I retired from baseball that year, content to rest on my laurel (singular).

Bill Abrams resides, and reminisces about America’s favorite pastime, in Pine Plains.

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