Play Ball!

There is no easy way to explain this—because it’s stupid.

I have mentioned in earlier posts about my little home on Cheryl Street in Billings, Montana. My neighbor’s Brian and Brian. And the games we would play. Well, it’s baseball season. And because I love baseball season so much, I thought I would write about it.

Author’s note: I don’t love baseball. I had a traumatic event as a child involving a baseball bat. So why did I join Little League three years in a row? Now I’m just accidentally tangenting without a purpose. Let’s get back to the purpose. Well, the reason I wrote that I love baseball so much is because I was being sarcastic, and it was the only way I could think of to make the connection between my story and the current time of year. As for the second question, why would I join Little League three years in a row? Ya’ got me. I was a kid. I don’t even remember being asked if I wanted to play baseball. I do recall that I didn’t like it. I have been meaning to write about it one of these days. But, I digress…

When I was much younger, probably about six or seven years old, myself and my two friends Brian L. and Brian S. invented a game: Unga-Bunga Baseball.

Okay, you need context. I get it.

It was the ‘80s, and cavemen were still pretty cool. There were cartoons like The Flintstones (Hanna-Barbera, 1960-1966 in syndication) and Captain Caveman and the Teen Angels (Hanna-Barbera, 1977-1980 also in reruns), both of which were still very popular. I know what I wrote. The good ‘ol Captain had a club that was basically a prehistoric version of Batman’s utility belt. But it was the shape that made it iconic. Wide at the top and with a narrow handle at the other end (where else would it be?). He also had a memorable quote: Unga Bunga.

Yup, those two words. “Now, how does this all finally come together, because I am getting bored and would like to know if I have wasted my time or not?” you may well be asking yourself. Well, self, that is a good question. I won’t know if you’ve wasted your time or not. I would like to think this read will end up being worth it to you. So, unless you leave a comment, I’ll never know. As for the other part: How all this comes together? I’m getting to that: Brian’s red bat.

Brian S. (the one a year younger than me) had a red plastic baseball bat that I guess was designed to make it easier for children to hit a ball with because it was bigger on one end. Like a club. Like Captain Caveman’s club.

How and when the game was actually formed is uncertain. How many seasons it lasted is unrecollectable (it’s a word. now. now, it’s a word). What is known is that we probably did some brain damage to ourselves.

I know what I wrote.

When you have only three players for Baseball, positions are difficult to man. There would be a pitcher, a batter, and an outfield’s man? Outfieldman? Outfields-er? I don’t know. I’m not a sports guy. “GO TEAM!” “MAKE THE GOAL-UNIT!” “YEAH!” “SPORTSMANSHIP!” That’s what I know. Anyway, Brian S. had that large bat, and when the batter would step up to the plate, we would do what we saw the batters do on television. They would tap the plate with their bat as they prepared to swing. Well, when you have young children playing, they might… exaggerate. And one of us did.

Whoever it was clubbed the plate a little too hard, and the bat rebounded up and hit him in the face. We all laughed. Whoever it was did it again, and again, we all laughed. Someone else repeated the antic. More laughter. Then, the inevitable occurred, we kinda acted like it was Captain Caveman’s club (due to the pointed-out-earlier-shape) and waved it about whilst calling out, “Unga Bunga!” That cinched it. We had a new sport: Unga-Bunga Baseball. And yes, I used the word ‘whilst’. Whadda’ gonna do about it?
Keep reading, I hope.

The rule was simple (yes, I wrote rule, not rules. singular, not plural): When it was your turn at bat, you had to hit the ground hard with the bat, let it rebound back up and hit you in the head while you called out, “Unga-Bunga Baseball”. The beating had to go in time with the words. Swing down to the ground, “Un-”. Swing back up and hit yourself in the head (face), “-ga”. Swing down, “Bun-”. Then back into your head, “-ga”. Once more to the ground, “Base-”. Then once more to the face (head), -ball.” A total of six hits. Three to the ground, three to the head (face). Then the pitcher would pitch. This was done for each and every pitch. Each. And every. Pitch.

Many children, when starting out to learn the sport of baseball, are afraid of the… All together now: “Ball”. Yes, that’s right. The ball. They are afraid of the ball. Specifically, they are afraid of getting hit by the ball. Not us—mostly because we used a wiffle ball. No, we were not afraid of the ball; we were afraid of getting up to bat.

We would beat ourselves senseless. Two of us would watch the batter beat themselves into oblivion, and we would just laugh and laugh and laugh. It was so much fun (to watch). We would smack our heads and act like cavemen grunting and scratching our armpits and heads (because that’s what cartoons educated us into knowing), then we would attempt to run bases with our recently self-inflicted concussions, whilst the other two just stood in the yard and laughed.

The pitcher would toss the oh-so-delightful whiffle ball underhanded in an concerted effort to make it easier to hit (easier to hit?!? with that bat-club?!?) and the batter would try to figure out if it was better to strike out (and then have to perform the ritual head-beating for two more consecutive pitches) or try to hit the ball hard and make a run for a base and then possibly have to bat for ghost runners. If you don’t know, ghost runners are the pretend players left behind on a base if you were a loser enough of a player to not hit a home run (I know what I wrote). We were like six, seven, and eight years old. We didn’t hit home runs. (again, yeah. I know. I wrote it)

Sometimes the batter would strike out, and the pitcher and the outfield person would begin to argue over whose turn it was to bat next. The conversations went something like this:

“No. No. You can bat first. I insist.”

OR

“But you’re not a good outfielder.”
“So?”
“I’ll have to hit again…”
“So?”

OR

“But you’re a terrible pitcher.”
“So?”
“I’m starting to blackout.”

OR

The Outfield’s man would fumble the wiffle ball—a lot.
“Butterfingers.”
“What do you care? You now have six runs.”
“I’m going cross-eyed! Get me out!”

OR

The ball would ‘accidentally’ get bunted directly toward the pitcher.
“Oops! I guess I’m going to get out. Darn…”
On this one, we could be real jerks. As the bunter would jog to first base, the pitcher would ‘trip’ and ‘stumble’ in their efforts to pick up the ball. We knew what they were trying to do, and we would not support it. No, sirree, Bob. Nope. We would make them take a base and a ‘penalty’ Ghost Runner to teach them a lesson. Imagine cheating like that. Sheesh.

Ah, to be a youth in the ‘80s. Such witty repartee: “So?”

The game was fun, but we soon discovered that it didn’t last for too many innings, and we couldn’t play it two days in a row. It didn’t take long for us to learn that once a week, at most, was best. Brian L. (the older Brian) was the first to stop hitting his head on purpose. His claim was, “I’m getting a headache.” Sissy.
Yeah, you read that correctly. Besides, it’s not like he’s ever going to read this (probably).

Honestly, I could be remembering it all wrong. I think that I may or may not have been staring off into space when it happened.

I once told my children about the game. I laughed and laughed about how we would whack our heads. Not softly, no. We would whack the ground and our heads hard. Like a caveman would. Because we were experts, after all. We watched cartoons. We knew all about how the world worked. It was, however, after I mentioned the head whacking portion of the game that my oldest interrupted what would have been an otherwise magical stroll down Childhood Lane with, “Dad!? Well, that explains some things.”

“What?” I was clearly confused by the outburst.

From what I can remember, it was a fun game. At least I think I remember it being fun. It’s all kind of…

Right now, I have the quote from A League of Their Own (1992) drifting through my head on a delayed loop, “There’s no crying in baseball!” Looking back on it all, I’m pretty sure one of us did.

At some point. It just stands to reason.