"It's just a silly piece of wood," my sister would say. She'd plead with my parents, "Why does he have to carry that silly thing around with him all the time? Make him put it down!" when I swung it in front of the television when the Twins were up to bat, in front of the full-length mirror in the den, in the backyard, front yard, in our dank basement …
Coach Petri told us you had to swing a bat 100 times a day, every day, all year round if you wanted to be a good hitter. He didn't say anything about creating make-believe bottom-of-the-ninth inning scenarios that always made you the hero. Of course, I, and no doubt every kid, did just that. Older sisters didn't understand. Thank goodness dads did.
My first real bat, and by real I mean a Hillerich and Bradsby Co. Louisville Slugger, was a birthday gift from Dad. He'd wrapped it sloppily with newspaper. I can't be sure why. Maybe because he wanted to make sure he knew it was from him and only him. And how he knew a Bob Allison autographed, thick-handled 29-incher was just my style and fit, I don't know.
I schlepped it proudly to school, even during the chilled still-icy days of mid-March. Back then, the grown-ups there didn't make a fuss about it except for a few subtle snickers or sweet smiles when I'd tell them about Coach Petri's "hundred-swings-a-day rule." But soon after, in a letter written to parents, Principal Tabor put a kabash on the bat-bringing when a bunch more boys started bringing theirs.
It never occurred to me that my "Bob Allison" wouldn't last forever, until it didn't. Two or three summers later, it splintered. I was crushed. Any kid who loves to play ball mourns his or her busted bat. I seriously fretted how — if — I could play ball without it.
Dad to the rescue. Picking out a new one at Al Berman's Sporting Goods was a big, big deal. I remember standing in front of the hundreds of unblemished Louisville Sluggers and realizing how I'd grown out of the now pint-sized 29-incher and could handle a 32-incher. Next what mattered was whose autograph to choose. Another big, big deal. That took a while. Mays'? Mantle's? Killebrew's? Another Allison? No. This time, Jim Gentile's.
You've probably have never heard of "Diamond Jim." He played for the Baltimore Orioles in the 1950s and '60s. Around the time my "Bob Allison" cracked, I saw Gentile hit two (TWO) grand slam homers in consecutive innings against the Twins at Met Stadium. That sealed the deal.
My "Gentile" lasted a few years. Then, like most things you own as a kid, it, too, busted, vanished or lost its luster. I can't remember.
