Glass Eye Baseball Boy
Baseball Took The Sting Out of His Life.
Robert Clay was three when cancer struck his right eye and socket. He was fitted with a prosthetic, but the cancer had disfigured that part of his face. Not terribly, but noticeably. Noticeable enough that other children kept their distance, or teased him. The loss of sight in that eye meant that he needed glasses to sharpen the left eye.
He came from a family that was always busy. Too busy it seemed to spend much time with Robert. His best companion was the family dog, a black Labrador Retriever named Blackie.
When Robert got into his teens Blackie remained his best - and sometimes only - friend. They played together, especially ball. Robert would throw and Blackie would fetch. They played with tennis balls. They walked through the fields behind the family house and Robert threw the ball against trees and it bounced hither and yon and Blackie chased it and brought it back.
One afternoon after school Robert picked out one tree, a Poplar, and chose to throw the ball at that tree only. Blackie chased it down. Robert threw it. He enjoyed striking the tree and gradually backed further away from it to test his accuracy. After doing this for weeks after school, he realized that he was able to hit the tree more times than not from a long distance.
One day he brought his dad’s construction ruler with him and measured his throwing distance to the tree. It was 71 feet. That night at home he researched the distance of home plate to the pitching mound. Professional baseball regulations set it at 60 feet six inches. He felt a tingle at the top of his scalp. He was throwing farther than big league pitchers, and now he was hitting the tree more than 70 percent of the time.
The next day he took a paint can and brush and while Blackie sniffed through the field, he painted a stick and set it exactly 60 feet 6 inches from the Poplar tree. He called for Blackie. Glass eye baseball boy was ready to throw. And he did. For thirty minutes, from the make-believe pitcher’s mound. He hit the Poplar tree way more often than not.
That night he set about researching more professional baseball specifications. Home plate is 17 inches wide. He pictured the Poplar tree in his mind. He took a ruler from his desk and marked off 17 inches on his desk top. The next day at school all he could think about was the width of that Poplar tree. If it was wider than 17 inches, well no wonder he was hitting it so often. If it was 17 inches or close to it, then he was throwing right into the professional baseball strike zone.
After school he and Blackie ran to the field to measure the tree. In fact, it was 16 inches plus a little. It was hard to measure because the bark stuck this way and that. He sat down on a big rock. Blackie came over to him. He told Blackie that he was pitching like the big league baseball pitchers do. Blackie seemed impressed and nuzzled his cold nose into Robert’s hand.
That night Robert did more research. This time on the strike zone. The strike zone, he found, varies with the batter. It’s high mark is a point between the shoulder and the belt. It’s low point is the knee cap. Robert was perplexed. At 15, and 5 feet 9 inches tall, he figured his strike zone was too small for the average big league batter. He took a yardstick, and while his big brother was stretched out watching television, he measured the distance between the two points. His brother was six feet one inch tall. Despite his big brother’s protest, he was able to measure his brother’s strike zone as 20 inches.
The next day at school the teacher stopped in the middle of her class and asked Robert why he was not paying attention. The other kids looked and giggled. The bully behind him kicked Robert’s chair.
"I’m thinking about being a big league baseball pitcher," Robert answered.
The students erupted with howls and whistles and laughter. Not good laughter, the kind that shows the person is engaged in your life. The nasty, ridiculing kind of laughter.
Robert was never aware of his glass eye more than at that moment. It seemed to be the mark that made him different. And the class joke.
"That is nice, Robert," the teacher said. "But when you are in this class you need to pay attention."
After school Robert took his dad’s construction ruler back to the field to measure off a 20 inch strike zone. He used the same paint he used to paint a pitcher’s mound stick. Blackie seemed puzzled. When are we going to play ball?
The next day at school the teacher told Robert to stay after class. He worried that his parents would be called and he would be in trouble for not paying attention.
After the other students left, the teacher handed Robert a baseball. It was soiled, and there was evidence it at one time had been wet. But the seams were intact, red they were. Robert reached out and accepted the baseball. It was hard. The leather cover felt good to him.
"I found that ball behind my house, in the garden," the teacher told him. "Neighborhood kids probably. I’ve had it for years. It’s yours now, Robert."
Robert was shy. The glass eye baseball boy could barely look at his teacher. But he muttered a sincere thank you, and the teacher seemed satisfied.
After school Robert ran home as fast as he could. He now had a professional baseball. He had a pitcher’s mound and a strike zone. If his big brother would let him use his baseball glove, he would be all set. No more tennis balls.
Blackie, though, was not happy. The baseball sounded against the tree with a thunk and bounced only a short distance. Not like the tennis ball that careened off the tree with glee. So Blackie soon spent more time sniffing the field than he did retrieving the baseball.
Robert understood. But he continued to throw the baseball at the strike zone, and was astonished to find that his accuracy had increased.
The field that Robert used was behind the family home. Another street ran across the far side of the field on a diagonal. The Poplar tree was easily visible from that street. One day, it was summer now, and Robert had more time to practice, he heard a car engine idling, though he did not pay attention to it. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty went by, and he realized that the car was still parked with the motor running. Robert stopped to look for Blackie. The dog was sniffing under a log. Robert walked to get the dog and that is when he noticed a young man approach him. The man had been in the car.
"I couldn’t help but watch you throw that baseball. Can I take a look at it?"
Robert handed the man the baseball.
The man rolled it around in his hand and then tossed it into the air a few times in a very natural way.
Robert, being shy, hung his head and had trouble looking directly at the man.
"You’ve got some throw there," young man. "Mind if I try it?"
So the man from the car took Robert’s baseball glove and ball and set himself up at the pitcher’s mound, took aim, and threw the ball at the strike zone marked on the tree. The ball missed the tree. Robert called for Blackie to fetch the ball but the dog wanted his tennis ball and didn’t pay attention. So Robert ran and got the ball and brought it back to the man.
The man took another throw, and then another, without hitting the tree.
"I play minor league ball," the man told Robert. "I’m a pitcher." He looked around. "I’m visiting my aunt."
Robert was not able to carry on a conversation and just kind of stared at the man.
"You’re deadly accurate," the man told Robert. "I watched you hit that mark on the tree thirty three times out of thirty five."
There was a pause. Neither one spoke.
AFTERWORD
Eight years later, at 23, Robert stood on the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium. The first batter to face him was nervous and sweating. He took longer than usual to warm up and swing his bat. Finally the home plate umpire motioned for him to enter the batting box. That first batter was tense. He knew that Robert Clay’s pitching was deadly accurate.
He came from a family that was always busy. Too busy it seemed to spend much time with Robert. His best companion was the family dog, a black Labrador Retriever named Blackie.
When Robert got into his teens Blackie remained his best - and sometimes only - friend. They played together, especially ball. Robert would throw and Blackie would fetch. They played with tennis balls. They walked through the fields behind the family house and Robert threw the ball against trees and it bounced hither and yon and Blackie chased it and brought it back.
One afternoon after school Robert picked out one tree, a Poplar, and chose to throw the ball at that tree only. Blackie chased it down. Robert threw it. He enjoyed striking the tree and gradually backed further away from it to test his accuracy. After doing this for weeks after school, he realized that he was able to hit the tree more times than not from a long distance.
One day he brought his dad’s construction ruler with him and measured his throwing distance to the tree. It was 71 feet. That night at home he researched the distance of home plate to the pitching mound. Professional baseball regulations set it at 60 feet six inches. He felt a tingle at the top of his scalp. He was throwing farther than big league pitchers, and now he was hitting the tree more than 70 percent of the time.
The next day he took a paint can and brush and while Blackie sniffed through the field, he painted a stick and set it exactly 60 feet 6 inches from the Poplar tree. He called for Blackie. Glass eye baseball boy was ready to throw. And he did. For thirty minutes, from the make-believe pitcher’s mound. He hit the Poplar tree way more often than not.
That night he set about researching more professional baseball specifications. Home plate is 17 inches wide. He pictured the Poplar tree in his mind. He took a ruler from his desk and marked off 17 inches on his desk top. The next day at school all he could think about was the width of that Poplar tree. If it was wider than 17 inches, well no wonder he was hitting it so often. If it was 17 inches or close to it, then he was throwing right into the professional baseball strike zone.
After school he and Blackie ran to the field to measure the tree. In fact, it was 16 inches plus a little. It was hard to measure because the bark stuck this way and that. He sat down on a big rock. Blackie came over to him. He told Blackie that he was pitching like the big league baseball pitchers do. Blackie seemed impressed and nuzzled his cold nose into Robert’s hand.
That night Robert did more research. This time on the strike zone. The strike zone, he found, varies with the batter. It’s high mark is a point between the shoulder and the belt. It’s low point is the knee cap. Robert was perplexed. At 15, and 5 feet 9 inches tall, he figured his strike zone was too small for the average big league batter. He took a yardstick, and while his big brother was stretched out watching television, he measured the distance between the two points. His brother was six feet one inch tall. Despite his big brother’s protest, he was able to measure his brother’s strike zone as 20 inches.
The next day at school the teacher stopped in the middle of her class and asked Robert why he was not paying attention. The other kids looked and giggled. The bully behind him kicked Robert’s chair.
"I’m thinking about being a big league baseball pitcher," Robert answered.
The students erupted with howls and whistles and laughter. Not good laughter, the kind that shows the person is engaged in your life. The nasty, ridiculing kind of laughter.
Robert was never aware of his glass eye more than at that moment. It seemed to be the mark that made him different. And the class joke.
"That is nice, Robert," the teacher said. "But when you are in this class you need to pay attention."
After school Robert took his dad’s construction ruler back to the field to measure off a 20 inch strike zone. He used the same paint he used to paint a pitcher’s mound stick. Blackie seemed puzzled. When are we going to play ball?
The next day at school the teacher told Robert to stay after class. He worried that his parents would be called and he would be in trouble for not paying attention.
After the other students left, the teacher handed Robert a baseball. It was soiled, and there was evidence it at one time had been wet. But the seams were intact, red they were. Robert reached out and accepted the baseball. It was hard. The leather cover felt good to him.
"I found that ball behind my house, in the garden," the teacher told him. "Neighborhood kids probably. I’ve had it for years. It’s yours now, Robert."
Robert was shy. The glass eye baseball boy could barely look at his teacher. But he muttered a sincere thank you, and the teacher seemed satisfied.
After school Robert ran home as fast as he could. He now had a professional baseball. He had a pitcher’s mound and a strike zone. If his big brother would let him use his baseball glove, he would be all set. No more tennis balls.
Blackie, though, was not happy. The baseball sounded against the tree with a thunk and bounced only a short distance. Not like the tennis ball that careened off the tree with glee. So Blackie soon spent more time sniffing the field than he did retrieving the baseball.
Robert understood. But he continued to throw the baseball at the strike zone, and was astonished to find that his accuracy had increased.
The field that Robert used was behind the family home. Another street ran across the far side of the field on a diagonal. The Poplar tree was easily visible from that street. One day, it was summer now, and Robert had more time to practice, he heard a car engine idling, though he did not pay attention to it. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty went by, and he realized that the car was still parked with the motor running. Robert stopped to look for Blackie. The dog was sniffing under a log. Robert walked to get the dog and that is when he noticed a young man approach him. The man had been in the car.
"I couldn’t help but watch you throw that baseball. Can I take a look at it?"
Robert handed the man the baseball.
The man rolled it around in his hand and then tossed it into the air a few times in a very natural way.
Robert, being shy, hung his head and had trouble looking directly at the man.
"You’ve got some throw there," young man. "Mind if I try it?"
So the man from the car took Robert’s baseball glove and ball and set himself up at the pitcher’s mound, took aim, and threw the ball at the strike zone marked on the tree. The ball missed the tree. Robert called for Blackie to fetch the ball but the dog wanted his tennis ball and didn’t pay attention. So Robert ran and got the ball and brought it back to the man.
The man took another throw, and then another, without hitting the tree.
"I play minor league ball," the man told Robert. "I’m a pitcher." He looked around. "I’m visiting my aunt."
Robert was not able to carry on a conversation and just kind of stared at the man.
"You’re deadly accurate," the man told Robert. "I watched you hit that mark on the tree thirty three times out of thirty five."
There was a pause. Neither one spoke.
AFTERWORD
Eight years later, at 23, Robert stood on the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium. The first batter to face him was nervous and sweating. He took longer than usual to warm up and swing his bat. Finally the home plate umpire motioned for him to enter the batting box. That first batter was tense. He knew that Robert Clay’s pitching was deadly accurate.
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