By Ken Robinson

Managing Editor


 At Beverly Park Elementary, I was quarterback on the school team in grades five and six. It was ‘flag’ football so there was no heavy contact or tackling. The game was a method of avoiding other people by running.

In summer, we had to round up other kids to avoid in makeshift games of baseball. We had already been on a Pony Lead team at age ten. Dad was the coach. In retrospect, I feel sorry for him having to deal with a bunch of snotty adenoidal kids where coaching was like teaching card tricks to chickens. Still, we were a ‘team’.

Teamwork is the underpinning of learning to work toward a common goal.

When Dad told me there were tryouts for a Little League team in White Center, and urged me to try, I did.

I already had a good mitt, the one I got for $1 from Ron Kniss. He had emblazoned his initials on the thumb piece, RK. That suited me fine, as my initials were KR. So I just pretended I had put the  letters there on purpose.  The mitt had been massaged in mink oil and pounded and worked to a velvety softness so wearing it was second nature. I had even taken my mitt to a Rainier’s game at the old Sick Stadium on Rainier Avenue. I went with a neighbor, Pudge Thomas. He lived across the street with his wife Unabelle and teenage daughter, Beverly. At age 10, I thought Beverly was an exotic creature, tall and leggy and with long dark brown hair. She was from time to time a baby sitter for the Robinson boys. Lucky us.

I always wanted to look my best in case Beverly saw me. The day of the Rainier’s game, I used a new green plastic comb to dress my hair. I carried the comb in my right pants pocket. Sitting with Pudge in the left field bleachers, we were about even with third base. A low fly ball drifted toward us, obscured by the late afternoon sun. The ball hit me square in the comb, snapping it in half. That event overshadowed all else and I have no memory of the game results.

Pudge must have felt sorry for me because he didn’t scold me LATER for  catching his  pet gold fish on a bent pin in his little backyard pond. 

On an early summer day, I began walking to the White Center Fieldhouse where the Little League tryout was being held. I had already started smoking cigarettes and cupped a Pall Mall in my right hand (my left hand was carrying my mitt) as I walked along Ambaum Boulevard. It must have looked to passing motorists like my hand was on fire. 

I got to the open field outside the stadium. A gaggle of other kids my age were loitering around a wiry man with a clipboard. I assumed he was the coach. He had a tavern jacket with the words “Southwest Lumber” embroidered on the back. We all gave our names and coach told us to fan out in the field. He began hitting ‘fungos’, fly balls hit for batting practice. We did that for a while, catching and returning the balls. We practiced fielding grounders and moved around to different positions on the field so the coach could size us up. 

The exercise lasted about 90 minutes and we were pulled together for the decision about who would make the team. There were a couple of standout players there, including Jerry Dokken, a good-looking young guy with a lot of athletic ability. He became an architect later.

I got cut.

Coach called out the names of kids who would represent his lumber company and my name was not among them.

When Dad came home, I told him about my dismissal. He may not have noticed the redolent aroma of cigarettes on me because he was a smoker then too. He only nodded sympathetically in what seemed like an acknowledgment that his kid was no athlete.

At the dinner table, we picked at a plate of beanie weenies. My two older brothers made some slurping noises in their usual body symphony. When the plates were almost bare, Dad cleared his throat, sucked some black coffee  (he called himself an ‘air swallower’) and told us a short story.

It was about Mickey Mantle, the vaunted catcher of the New York Yankees. Mantle, he said, had also been cut when he first tried. Dad said The Mick was devastated. He sought solace with his father. His dream of a big league career was stubbed out.

Elvin “Mutt” Mantle told his son a story. He said “Go back tomorrow.  This time,  work harder and show the coach your skills.” 

You may already know the outcome that carried Mantle to the heights of his career.

I went back the next day where the new team was practicing. It is possible that Jim Fetters, the coach, could not remember who he had chosen the day before. In the bullpen, I stood near Jerry Dokken, waiting for a call to take the field. Coach Fetters asked the group  if anyone could pitch. He said the team need a ‘fire relief’ pitcher. This is a role where the pitcher is specializes in getting finished outs in a close game. I stepped forward, my stomach tensed, and  took the mound. 

I had no experience other than in Pony League ball and tossing the ball around at home. But I did well enough that the coach told me that I had a position on the team and would play second base until needed in a game. 

One day during the season, Dad  sat in the bleacher during a game. When I got up to bat, I swung on the first pitch and drove a low line drive down the third base line for a home run. Dad gave a wan smile and went back to work.

Now a bona fide Little League player, I adopted a jaunty swagger when I wandered around the playfield

If I arrived early, I would go inside the stadium to watch the older players practice. They seemed like a smug bunch, flaunting their skills earned by another year or two as players.

A pride of guys, three or four, sat on the fringe of the inside field like a young lions. I knew, or at least recognized, a couple of these older classmen from school. I sat down near them, being careful to not step inside their circle. I felt their unwelcome gaze.

Phil Pete, a year older, looked at me like I was the dumb kid in class.  He looked at the other lions and coaxed smirks from them.

Then said to me, pointing to a spot nearby, “You can’t tell your ass from a hole in the ground.” 
I assumed he was right. Still, I squirmed.

Then Phil said, again pointing, “Which one is your ass and which one is a hole in the ground?” 

There was no time to answer even if I had one. 

Phil sort of cocked his jaw, allowing a gob of spittle to form in the cup of his mouth, bent slightly forward and blew the gob about 14 feet across the lawn. It was a spectacular feat of spitting.  His pals looked approvingly at Phil, nodding nonchalantly in approval.

Because I was transfixed by the technique, I decided then I would try to master it. 

That is how I learned how to spit.