When I was a Kid - Part I

His name was Jack Swinger and even as a kid I knew he was a plastic pimp with the scruples of foot fungus. It is beneath me to even mention his name but for the purposes of sharing this story with you I’ll have to put a clothes pin on my nose and resurrect the bastard’s memory. You see Jack was my gold chain wearing Little League coach--an ugly precursor to the modern Little League Dad. He was way ahead of his time as far as being slime was concerned and for that I guess some sort of accolade should be bestowed upon him. So, to Jack I raise my middle finger and say, “Kiss my ass.”

But this story isn’t just about Jack per say, if it were it would be so oily you’d probably slide out of your chair by page three. No, this story is about me and how in a way I had my revenge against Jack, how a kid who was pushed too far learned to push back thanks to the help of a former NFL lineman.

I first met Jack and his freckled offspring Bert--who was as mean as a pit bull locked inside a utility closet---in 1979 when my family moved from Hershey to Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania. It was at Little League tryouts that coach and son first appeared in the story that was shaping up to be my life. It would also be the day the bottom of my world fell out like the soggy bottom of a wax paper soda cup.

I remember standing under a leafless tree on the edge of the baseball field with several other prospective Little Leaguers when I saw a great cloud of brown dust came rolling down the dirt lane. I would soon see, buried in the depths of this cloud, a Chevy van bedecked in glittering purple paint, audacious gold rims and oversized Goodyear tires.

A kid named Eddie leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I have a Matchbox car exactly like that van.”

I wasn’t yet able to recognize the tribute to the man whore lifestyle Jack Swinger was making with the gaudy accessories he painted, glued, and welded to his van but I knew something was amiss. I’d never seen a full grown adult drive a vehicle that looked like a Matchbox car and something about it made me uneasy.

“Is that our coach?” someone asked.

We all stared wide eyed as the man I would come to know as Jack Swinger slid out of the van with the same grotesque rhythm of a snake shedding its skin. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and tugged at his crotch as if he was making sure his manhood hadn’t come unscrewed and was sitting back on the floor of his van.

His pudgy son Bert soon emerged from the other side of the Chevy van and like his father adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and then tugged happily at his tiny crotch. “Dad do you want me to get the equipment?”

“Well, it’s not going to get itself is it? And don’t forget the bases,” Swinger said. “I’m going to introduce myself to the team.”

The crisp spring air was poisoned immediately as Jack Swinger walked up to us, leaving a vapor trail of Brute and Garcia Vega cigar smoke that burned the linings of our eyes and lungs. He lifted his foot and put his Garcia Vega out on the sole of his new Pony cleat.

Jack twirled the orange chest hair that hung out of his wide collared silk shirt. “Well, what are you nancy boys looking at? Get out there in center field and line up. We’re going to catch some pop flies.”

Like a herd disoriented water buffalo we drifted out into the outfield and formed a crooked line. Somehow I ended up in the front of this poorly constructed line, which was not at all what I had intended. In fact I thought I had been last in line but Swinger designated my position as the front when he pointed at me with Louisville Slugger.

“Okay, hot one comin’ at ya, Messner,” Swinger yelled.

He tossed the ball up in the air and swung with the viciousness of Reggie Jackson. CRACK! The ball whistled through the air in a high line drive that was about twenty feet over my head. I tried to chase the smoking orb down but even if Willie Mays had been given a full head of steam and a fishing net on a long pole he wouldn’t have been able to snag that one.

As I ran after the ball I glanced back over my shoulder. Swinger threw his arms up in the air in disgust. The gold chains around his neck jangled against the collar of his silk shirt. “Come on, catch the ball.”

I searched for the ball knocking down poison ivy with an old reality sign I found leaning against a tree.

“Come on we don’t have all day,” Swinger said.

I kicked at the poison ivy. “I can’t find it.”

Continuing to beat around with the reality sign I noticed in the underbrush someone had discarded what looked like a perfectly good bra and a six pack of Schlitz but not having yet dabbled in the drunken arts I let the warm bottles where they lay. “Damn it,” I said under my breath, “where is the ball?”

Something scurried out from under a wet cardboard box. I flung the reality sign in the animal’s general direction and high tailed it out of the woods. That jerk can find his own ball, I thought.

Next up in the pop fly circus was none other than the mini-pimp Bert Swinger. He took a pouch of Big League Chew out of his back pocket and stuffed his cheek with an obnoxiously large wad of it and gave his dad the thumbs up sign.

“Come on big guy,” Swinger said. “Show the old man what you got.”

Swinger tossed the ball in the air and took a feeble half swing. The ball arched lazily up up up and seemed to hover in the sky like a dirigible for a moment before it decided to come back to earth directly overtop of Bert. There was no need for the scurrilous offspring of Jack Swinger to do any more than lift his glove up and let the ball fall directly into it.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Swinger said. “Did you see that? That’s how you catch a ball Messner.”

Yeah, I saw it all right. I knew then that something wasn’t fucking right. Someone was toying with self-fulfilling prophecies and his name was Jack Swinger. Where had the warp-speed Reggie Jackson swing gone? What about the extra hot sauce on the ball he delivered to me? Why was he trying to make me look bad? I was so pissed off I could barely breath. Baseball had always been carefree and fun. I had been damn good at it too, making the All Star team every year I played and now suddenly, in less than ten minutes I was beginning to doubt my own ability.

I was about to learn the hard way that the world wasn’t fair, that it was filled with unscrupulous adults with agendas that had nothing to do with my best interest but only success for them and their anemic offspring. I had unwittingly joined an inglorious parade led by that plastic pimp named Jack Swinger and I had no choice but to follow. For the next few years I would be at the back of this parade with a push broom and everyone knows what the guys at the back of the parade are left to clean up.

“Hey, Messner, did you find that ball?” Swinger asked.

“No.”

“Well get back in the woods and find it.” He turned to one of the parents that was standing nearby. “Can you believe that kid?” he said.