in deep left, and by the time they found the balls, he was already back on the bench pulling on a bottle of Birley’s orange drink.
I had results of other league games phoned in to me, but there wasn’t much there in the Arnco-Sargent vs. Corinth, well, tilt. They had to end the game after four innings, with Corinth ahead, 11–7, when various cows from a pasture that bordered the ballfield broke through a barbed-wire fence and into the outfield, which they left unfit for further play.
In the Grantville-Mills Chapel engagement (I was learning more clichés by the moment), the only thing that happened that was the slightest bit interesting was that a stray dog had wandered onto the field, chased down a ball that got through the Grantville defense, and tried to run away with it. The dog was finally caught by the Grantville shortstop, who would become the league’s fastest man and most prolific scorer, but by that time, the dog had gnawed several of the stitches off.
Since that was the only ball anybody had, they had to finish the game with it, and by the end of the sixth inning, it resembled a rotten peach more than a baseball. The game ended in a 8–8 tie, and Jake Bradbury, who owned the dog, was told to keep it penned during future games.
Clearly, my no-hitter was the big news, but should the lead of my first sports story feature my own exploits?
Later, I would learn journalism ethics were nebulous, to say the least, so I followed my developing nose for news and went with the following:
Brilliant Moreland right-hander Lewis Grizzard, in his first start in organized baseball, baffled the visiting Macedonia Baptist nine Saturday afternoon with a no-hitter. Dudley Stamps, in a lesser role, had three home runs in the 14-0 romp.
Uncle Grover and Aunt Jessie also took the weekly Times-Herald. When they brought it home at Thursday noon, I opened it even before the Constitution. Besides, the Cracker game had been on television the night before, so I’d seen little Ernie Oravetz lead the Chattanooga Lookouts to an easy 9–4 victory.
I will never forget gazing upon my name appearing in a newspaper for the first time. In fact, my name appeared in the newspaper for the first time three times.
The headline read:
“MORELAND’S LEWIS GRIZZARD
NO-HITS MACEDONIA 14 – 0”
Then came my byline:
By LEWIS GRIZZARD.
Then came the lead of my story, “Brilliant Moreland right-hander Lewis Grizzard . . .”
I had also mentioned my heroic exploits to the lady who wrote the column about who had iced tea and watermelon with whom, in hopes she might also make mention of my no-hit game. But she said she ran out of space because there was so much to tell about the Women’s Bible class taking a trip to an all-night gospel singing in Grantville that featured LeRoy Abernathy and Shorty Bradford (known as “the Happy Two”), as well as the Sunshine Boys, the Blackman Brothers Quartet, and a little blind girl who sang “Just as I Am.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after that lineup.
Despite that, I still broke into organized baseball and sportswriting in a big way, and I would wonder afterward if there was a possibility I might play for the Crackers when I grew up and also cover the games and get paid by the Constitution.
My dream of pitching professionally, however, came to an abrupt end my senior year in high school. They bused those of us out in the county to Newnan High School.
It was my final game as a Newnan High baseball player. We were playing mighty Griffin. We led 3–2 in the bottom of the sixth when I faced the Griffin catcher, who, with two outs and the bases loaded, looked about twenty-five years old.
I had whiffed the Griffin catcher in two previous plate appearances with slow curveballs. Now I worked the count to two balls, two strikes. My coach called time and came to the mound.
“Grizzard,” he said, “don’t throw this guy another one of those slow curveballs. He’s seen too many of them already.”
What did he know? The slow curve was my out pitch. The slow curve to me was what a piano had been to Mozart, a rifle to Davey Crockett, a tank to George Patton.
The Griffin catcher dug in, and I delivered that tantalizing dipsydo of mine.
Are you familiar with the term “hanging curveball”? Mine not only hung, it actually stopped directly over the plate and waited for the Griffin catcher to hit it.
After the game, which we had lost 6–3, I asked my left fielder, “Did you have any chance to catch that ball the Griffin catcher hit?”
He said, “No, but I did manage to get a brief glance at it as it was leaving the planet.”
So, no offers of a professional contract or a college baseball scholarship were forthcoming, but I still had my dream of being a sportswriter. At least you didn’t sweat as much up in the press box as you did down on the field actually playing the game.
My journalism career stalled for a time after I got too old to play ball for the Baptists and report on my heroics on the mound for Moreland.
I was quite frustrated by this, especially during my first two years in high school where they tried to teach me such things as algebra.
Why should I have to take algebra? I asked myself. How on earth will I ever use it as a sportswriter? Did Red Smith have to go study algebra? I should be taking courses on wordsmithing and how to turn in an expense account after a road trip to Little Rock.
They tried to teach me biology, too, but I resisted. When it came time to dissect a dead frog, I refused on the basis that I might throw up during the procedure and that since I had no interest whatsoever in becoming a doctor, a veterinarian, or frogologist, I should be allowed to go to the library and read some Victor Hugo.
I was lying about reading Victor Hugo, in case you couldn’t tell. What I really wanted to do, since it was September, was to go get the Constitution they kept in the library and read the sports papers to brush up on my clichés.
My biology teacher thought about my proposal for a second and then issued the command, “Cut.”
As I made my initial incision into Mr. Dead Frog, fighting back the gag reflex, the thought occurred to me, How does the school get its hands on all these croaked croakers? There was probably no place you can order them from, or was there? I made myself a mental note to check the phone book when I got home to see if there was somebody in the business of selling dead frogs to schools for tenth-graders to mutilate.
What if there was no such place? Then how did the school get their frogs? Does the biology teacher call up the chemistry teacher and one of the assistant football coaches late in the summer and say, “Hey, guys, it’s almost time for school, how about helping me go out and get some frogs?” Then do they go out to a pond somewhere, sneak up on a bunch of frogs, catch them, and put them in a sack? And if they do that, how do they kill them? Or do they put them into jars of formaldehyde while they’re still alive?
Just then, my biology teacher walked behind and asked, “How’s it going?”
“I’m on my way to the stomach right now,” I answered. “By the way, how did you get your hands on all these dead frogs?”
The
