Hind Catcher

We would be remiss if we didn’t relate our experience as a baseball catcher one day in our teens. Man on second, we call for a fastball with two out in the bottom of the seventh (the inning of decision for kids) and ahead by a run. The young stud at the plate laces the pitch into left center. We throw off our mask and stand astride the plate, all 130 pounds of ourselves. The left fielder picks it up cleanly and fires to us.

The throw is high, we have to jump and catch and apply the tag in one motion. The man on second, a young Pete Rose, barrels in as we tag him on his back as he sends us flying. It is our one moment of glory. Few remain, we suspect.

We never heard a greater compliment than that delivered that day by a young lady with bad teeth, common in those days. “What a brave hind catcher.” We still see her and love her wherever she is. Are there still hill folk who call the catcher a “hind catcher?”

This is why we love this sporting life. The moment of a girl (we can’t divulge her name) telling you at 16 that you are brave has an exhilarating effect. It has lasted a lifetime.

But fear tries to poke its nose beneath the tent. So we are always in awe of the man in the arena, the guy or gal who leaves the tent without a care for battle.


How about the poor son of a gun from Pittsburgh who fouled the Butler fellow on a free throw rebound with a second on the clock and the score tied? He was reacting as all of us would do when we feel an athletic feat is called for.

Hold your head high, young man. We’ve all been there. We dropped a pop foul attempting a basket catch as a hind catcher, allowing the young batsman to get another pitch and drive in the winning run

”It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night is another thing." (The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway).