Bunt
My memory probably exaggerates what actually happened… But When I was 14, I almost killed a guy.
It was during a baseball game.
Before my freshman year of high school I played summer league for my high school team. More specifically, I played B squad for my high school team. Our coach was a has-been D-III infielder and we kinda sucked but had some good players. Fucking glory days.
The games didn’t matter and it was summer league. Guys played on other teams or went on vacation or whatever..For some reason baseball wasn’t priority. There were times we’d have a varsity player or two swing down to fill up the squad. Swingers. One of those players was Chris Freddy (not his real name.)
I was playing in a game with this swinger Chris Freddy. It was a typical summer league game. I don’t even remember if we were winning or losing. Who cares? It wasn’t about winning games. We were all just out there to sharpen our skills and gain some experience. I definitely wasn’t there to practice fucking bunting. Anyways, it was late in the game. I was batting and Chris Freddy was on third base. Our D-III has-been coach gave the signals.
Bunt.
I hate to say it, but bunting is for B words. Gently tap a pitched ball without swinging in an attempt to make it more difficult to field. Very bitch-like. Brad Pitt agrees. I can think of one reason why you bunt: you’re a bitch. Or a pitcher. Same thing.
There’s only one bunt ever worth remembering. It was 1989. A winner-take-all playoff game between the New York Yankees and the Cleveland Indians. It had been a mind-fuck of a season for Cleveland fans. First, former Las Vegas showgirl Rachel Phelps inherited the team. In her desire to move the team to Florida, she set out to field the worst team in the league. She signed players like Cuban defector Pedro Cerrano, convict Ricky Vaughn, and broken down catcher Jake Taylor. Willy Mays Hayes even made the club as a walk-on. Predictably, the Indians’ shortcomings were apparent throughout spring training and early in the season.
What Ms. Phelps failed to realize was that she had put together a potential powerhouse. The team began to turn things around. Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn realized his eyes sucked, harnessed his fastball, and became a phenom. Willy Mays Hayes, with his speed and athleticism, became a prototypical lead-off hitter once he stopped swinging for the fences. Pedro Cerrano used the power of Jobu to learn how to hit a curveball. And aging catcher Jake Taylor recaptured his youth, captaining the team on-and-off the diamond. Despite their owner’s best efforts, the Indians found themselves in contention. Mays Hayes said it best. “Not bad for a has-been and a couple of never-will-be’s.”
It was a miracle for Cleveland to be playing for the AL East title, but here they were facing the Yankees in a one-game playoff. The first six innings are mostly forgettable. Cleveland’s Ed Harris blanked the Yankees’ lineup through six with the help of some Vagisil, Crisco, and superb glove work by Indians’ defenders. Taylor picked off a runner at first. Willy Mays Hayes robbed a go-ahead bomb. Even d-bag Roger Dorn shined some leather. Cleveland batters didn’t fair any better. Cerrano twice struck out on curveballs. Willy Mays Hayes popped out.
For some reason that’s all history tells us until the top of the 7th, when Yankees’ left-handed Don Mattingly lookalike, Burton, finally broke the scoreless tie with a 2-run dinger to take the lead. Quickly, Cleveland countered in the bottom half. Roger Dorn got a two-out hit to left, bringing up Cerrano. Cerrano swung and missed on the first two pitches. Then, stepping away from the batters’ box, Cerrano famously muttered to himself, “Fuck you, Jobu. I do it myself.” The next pitch soared out of the ballpark as Cerrano touched them all, bat in hand. Game tied 2–2.
The game was still deadlocked in the ninth when for some reason Indians Manager Lou Brown left Harris in to face the heart of the Yankees lineup. He managed to record two outs before walking the go-ahead run. In came “Wild Thing” Ricky Vaughn, who struck out Clu Haywood to preserve the tie. Now it was the Indians turn.
The game seemed destined for extra innings when the first two Cleveland hitters failed to reach base. With two outs, Willy Mays Hayes scratched out an infield single. In true Mays Hayes fashion, single became double after he swiped second. Up came Jake Taylor.
Cue Bob Uecker:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=13&v=HaRRK-Cyoy4&feature=emb_title
Back to my shit.
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When the coach gives the sign to bunt with a runner on third, that’s called a squeeze bunt. There are two types of squeeze bunts: safety and suicide. On a safety squeeze, the base-runner will wait until the bunt is placed before taking off for home. On a suicide squeeze, the runner will take off when the pitcher begins the wind-up, assuming the batter will get the bunt down. On a murder squeeze (the secret third type of squeeze), the base-runner again takes off when the pitcher begins his windup, but the hitter swings instead of bunting. Here’s an example:
On most teams, it is procedure for the hitter to let the third-base coach and base-runner know that they have received the sign for a suicide squeeze. This can be something simple, like asking the umpire for the count, taking a practice swing, or touching the bill of their helmet. Pretty common knowledge to prevent a murder squeeze. On this team, with our super duper smart coach and a bunch of 14–17 year-old stoners, we had no such procedure. At least not that I was aware of. I’m sure he gave me the bunt sign, and maybe I accidentally did something to let them know I got the sign. But I didn’t.
As the ball came in I didn’t square up like a B word. I swung like a man. It’s fucking summer league and the score was probably 9–3 or some shit so why would we be squeeze bunting. It’s like bunting in Spring Training. If I’m ever at a Spring Training game and somebody fucking bunts I’m punching the mascot in the neck. (Sorry Dinger I really hate bunting.)
I connected like I never had before or since. I crushed the ball deep left-center. For a brief moment I thought it was gone. But before I could finish my backswing I realized that I was about to kill a guy. Chris Freddy was barreling down the third-base line. At the point of contact, it seemed like he was right on top of me.
There was only one impact on that swing. Thank god. I have to give credit to Swinger Freddy for his athleticism here. When I swung, Chris slid/ducked under it. I didn’t see how close I came to Negan-ing Chris’ eyeball out of his face because I was busy Negan-ing the baseball, (GIF below if you don’t get the reference) but it felt brutally close. I imagine it felt closer for Chris. Sorry dude. After almost dying, Chris popped up and touched home while I ran to first for a warning-track RBI single.
I’m writing about bunting while the world is on fire. The past few weeks have been 100% Bonkers. I’m struggling to process everything, as I’m sure a lot of people are. We went to the grocery store the other night for a green pepper and the shelves were bare. Like a Cormac McCarthy novel or some shit. Plenty of green peppers though.
I really couldn’t think of an appropriate B word for what’s happening. Borona? (In case you are wondering Borona is a type of cornbread they make in Spain.) Boredom? (If you’re reading this blog you must have some sense of that.) Buttfucked? (Sorry Mom but when they take away March Madness, Opening Day & NBA basketball, that’s how I feel.)
I’m having serious withdrawals from sports. I just need to see balls go back and forth on my TV in some form. So I replayed one of my favorite baseball games in history, Game 4 of the 2001 World Series (this one actually happened.) I mostly remember that night for “Mr. November.” In case you suck and have no idea what game I’m talking about, the game began on Halloween. When Derek Jeter came to bat with the score tied in the bottom of the 10th, the clock in centerfield struck midnight and Major League Baseball was played in November for the very first time. Jeter then roped a ball over the right field wall for a home-run, tying the series up at 2.
While I was watching this game, a certain B word kept popping up. My boy Craig Counsell had three sacrifice Bunts in his first three at bats. None of the runners he sacrificed ended up scoring. My other boy, Derek Jeter, attempted to Bunt for a hit leading off the bottom of the 8th. He was thrown out by a large margin. At one point, Alfonso Soriano, definitely not my boy, failed to get a sacrifice Bunt down. So he tried again with two strikes, fouling it off and therefore striking out…on a Bunt. Joe Torre’s face when he did that was fucking perfect. None of these Bunt attempts accomplished what they intended. Confirmed: Bunting is Bullshit.
So I decided to write about how much bullshit bunting is.
But there’s another type of bunt that I haven’t really gotten to. Jake Taylor was bunting for a hit. I was murder bunting. But Craig Counsell was sacrifice bunting: The batter sacrifices him/herself by bunting to advance the baserunner or runners. It’s almost divine. The most selfless act a baseball player can do. Which is why it’s the perfect B word right now.
A lot of us have been overwhelmed by media and politicians telling us how to live our lives. I don’t want to do that. Instead, I will share how I am choosing to live mine because ultimately it is up to each individual to decide how to move forward. I will be moving forward by bunting. Specifically, sacrifice bunting.
I’ll sacrifice bunt my March Madness bracket (bracket was going to be my next B word, thanks corona.) I’ll sacrifice bunt Opening Day (I’ll just replay the greatest baseball movies and games of all-time.) I’ll sacrifice bunt my small business (don’t worry Dog House Denver will still happen.) Pretty much, I’ll be sacrifice bunting my whole life until we get this shit figured out. And if I was your third base coach, I’d be signalling for you to do the same.
Predictably, a lot of people are panicking, creating hysteria and putting energy towards things that aren’t productive or helpful. Honestly, I’ve done a little bit of that. But mostly, I’m trying to embrace this whole situation. It’s inconvenient for sure and definitely came at a shit time (did I mention March Madness), but this is an experience that will never happen in our lifetimes again.. hopefully. Let’s try to enjoy the end of the world and use it as an opportunity to slow down. We spend so much time selfishly swinging for the fences that we forget that we are part of a team. The goal isn’t to score runs, it’s to win. And if Jake Taylor proved anything, we can still win by bunting.
I remember sharing a moment with Chris Freddy after that game. With a huge smile on his face, he wrapped his arm around me and said “You roped that shit.” I was beaming. I thought this upperclassman was about to put me in my place for almost taking his head off. But instead we had a good laugh about it and subsequently never talked again.
The lesson I learned that day rings true now more than ever. Yes, Bunting is for B words. But sometimes, it’s necessary to prevent other people from dying. So… Please wash your fucking hands. Avoid touching old people. And stop buying out all the shit.
Bunt.
Originally published at http://thebwordonline.net on March 19, 2020.
