Artifact No. 3
Varhaus Lore: A 10-Year-Old in 1984
The Detroit Tigers went 35-5 to start the season. We listened to the Cubbies and Harry Caray on WGN while we ate butter and jelly sandwiches at the dining table. KK would finish his lunch, push himself back, and announce, “I’m a Bud Man and a Cub Fan.”
Back outside.
We played home run derby in KK’s back yard. Sometimes Dougie played with us when he didn’t have teenage sports to play. Sometimes Nathaniel played with us when he wasn’t acting four years younger.
We taped the whiffle balls so they would fly more true. We taped upon the hemisphere with any tape we could find. Electric tape worked best unless it rained. “Duck” tape worked in all weather but it frayed and separated from the adhesive.
We were always experimenting with the ball and the bat. Cover some holes and see what happens. Tape down the middle or offset to one side. Now, throw submarines like Trent Tekulve. Wind-up like Louis Tiant. Leg-kick like Jack Morris. Senior Smoke. Dirty fingernails on cheap plastic. KK’s knuckleball was nasty, but his spitball was disgusting…especially if you hit it. We taped the sweet spot on the bat barrel for more weight. An explosive thud compared to a plastic whack.
The red Bomb Bats were for little underhand kids. Whiffle balls never cracked and whiffle bats never dented. They stuck in the wire fence backstop without going through which kept the action moving. Eavestroughs are the whiffles only natural enemy. A long fly ball onto the pitched roof quickly converts an all-star shortstop into a part-time bicyclist until dad gets home from work.
Mostly, we played spot ball. One on one. JK versus KK. Pitcher, batter, ghosties and pitcher’s hand. Hit it there: single. Hit it past there: Homer. Hit it in the garden, get yelled at. “Out of my tomatoes! We made our own rules. KK’s Mom made the boundaries.
We knew all the players from baseball cards and television. If Kirk Gibson was up, you had to bat left-handed. If you were Willie Hernandez...you had to pitch with your left. Screwball. KK batted left, threw right. I was righty, righty. We narrated the whole game like Ernie Harwell on a hot summer’s night in Detroit. “He stood there like the house on the side of the road and watched it go by.”
In my memory, every summer was like this.
In June of 1984 I was ten. KK was about to be eleven, one grade ahead of me. The Tigers won the world series that year. My dad bought me a Sports Illustrated with my hero on the cover.
World Series MVP.
Forty-two years later, he’s still my hero.
Alan Trammell batted right. Threw right. Played right.
Just like us.
