Uncle Nasty’s

Prologue:

Baseball can be a game of failure. The very best hitters in the game fail more often than they succeed.  If you dwell on failure in this game, your performance will suffer. The game is no longer fun at that point.  Throwing off discouragement is the key.  The most successful players somehow can eliminate the dark thoughts and move on. 

There is also a profound uncertainty of outcome you just don’t see in other sports. These uncertainties of outcome happen hundreds of times at pivotal points in a single game. Your best hitter might strike out, and your weakest hitter could get the game winning hit; a screaming liner right at a defender for an out, followed by a dribbler down the third base line for an infield single.  A ground ball can strike a small pebble and change its course and thus its destiny.  A ball in flight might take a fateful path and intersect  perfectly with the sun and a right fielder’s eye.  Random game changers can happen at any time.

Thankfully, though, baseball is also most certainly a game of redemption. Hollywood has used this theme relentlessly in many baseball movies.  That next at bat, that next pitch, that next game or even that next season; there exists that chance for redemption. “Get ’em next time, kid.”

Lubbock, Texas, 1976.

The Ponies had been playing a little better baseball, but were still winless in the conference. We made the seven hour bus ride to Lubbock, and our spirits were low but improving. We went there on Thursday, and arrived at our motel, a four-story building with outside entrances.

On Friday, we pitched Jim Beard and Mike Hall. They had both been pitching well recently; in fact it was these two guys that pitched complete game victories in our non-conference doubleheader sweep of University of Dallas a week or two prior.

The record shows we lost these two games in Lubbock by the scores of 10-4 and 9-1. We were struggling (again) to say the least. We would have one more shot at the Red Raiders the next day.

On Friday night we were restless, and with nothing interesting on TV, we did the only logical thing healthy All-American college-aged guys would do: We called a cab and asked the cabbie where we might find a good local bar with music and nice young ladies. He did not hesitate: “Uncle Nasty’s”.  The city of Lubbock, Texas, back in those days, was dry. That meant that just outside the city limits was a string of bars and liquor stores lined up a quarter mile long.

As I remember, our group included all the usual suspects: me, Goose, Pandy, JP, Jake, Hollywood, Sage, Beard and Hall. Uncle Nasty’s lived up to its prosperous billing. There was good music, and they served Lone Star Longnecks in a metal bucket with ice. There was a rowdy, but friendly crowd. Our group included a few good wing-men, and prospects for an interesting evening were good.

Some details of our night at Uncle Nasty’s are sketchy. However, there were a few things undeniable:  It was fun.  We stayed too long. We all knew we had a game the next day. The Longnecks were very cold. We solved all the world’s problems (again). There was loud music that included the likes of Jerry Jeff Walker, Commander Cody, Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. And finally, I ended up on the dance floor with a young babe from nearby Brownfield, Texas who told me she would be at the game the next day. (She didn’t show, and I felt a little relieved, remembering the lights were kind of dim at Uncle Nasty’s).

We all jammed into a vehicle for the ride back to the hotel in the wee hours of the morning. I think Sage’s girlfriend Patty who went to Tech arranged to get us home, but I can’t be sure. As we wheeled into the parking lot, it was Beard who yelled “Lookout, there’s Coach Finley!” Coach Finley was standing out on the second floor landing in his striped boxers, black socks, and an ‘old man’ tee shirt. Yikes, he must have done a bed-check! We all ducked down as our driver pulled around the other side of the hotel. We sneaked in to our rooms feeling much too satisfied that he had not caught us.

The next day was sunny and very warm. Coach Finley caught my arm and pulled me aside, and these (or very similar) words were exchanged:

“Johnson, your eyes look like two pee-holes in the snow! Did you go out drinking last night?”

“Yes, Coach I did”.

“Hot dammit, you’re a senior! You should know better, and be a better leader. I’m disappointed in you.”

“Sorry, Coach”.

“You’re starting today. Don’t expect much help, because nearly everyone else pitched yesterday. I hope you feel like shit.”

“I do”. (I did.)

“All right, then”.

Coach Finley didn’t like excuses, and I could not lie to the man, especially when I knew he was right. I also think that in his own way, he was trying to motivate me.  Once during a particularly bad losing streak, Finley called us together for this pre-game inspirational speech: “Fellas, we may not be worth a damn, but we play like shit. Let’s go.”

This game turned out to be one of our best. We got a lead, and while it wasn’t a pitching gem, I battled. We were ahead going into the sixth inning, 5-2. The heat started taking its toll. Having pitched in and out of trouble throughout the game, I was getting weary. My shoulder was barking at me, and it had gone from a sharp pain, to a dull ache, to a numb, dead feeling. The Red Raiders loaded the bases in the bottom of the sixth with one out. The next batter hit a sharp grounder to third, a double play ball, which started a dizzying turn of events.

As the play progressed, it appeared to be very routine: Pandy, our third baseman fielded the ball cleanly and fired a strike to Jake at second, who quickly whirled and threw to David Bostic at first base.

“Safe!”………”Safe!”

What?! The umpire called both runners safe. Finley came charging out of the dugout to argue. I’m sure he was thinking that we got ‘homered’ here once again by the ump. The safe call at second base was rare: the phantom tag of the base. My memory of the play is that it was a solid turn. The ump simply stated that Jake had come off the base before he caught the ball. The play at first was bang-bang, but we thought he was out also. Finley argued to the point of being ejected, which left the game in Assistant Coach Tinsley’s hands.  Coach Tinsley was a car dealer friend of Coach Finley’s from McKinney, TX that helped Coach on occasion on a volunteer basis.

When the dust settled from the verbal melee on the field the result was, 1) a willing, but very tired pitcher, 2) 5-3 score with still one out, and 3) a ‘deer in the headlights’ look on Coach T’s normally calm face.

Coach T left me in. The next batter hit a bullet to right field, which skipped all the way to the fence, clearing the bases. The score was suddenly 6-5 Tech. My arm and my legs were very tired.  I glanced toward the bench and saw Jim Beard and Mike Hall in an animated conversation with Coach T. Next, I saw Jim Beard hustle to the bullpen.  Beard relieved and finished the game, and the record shows that we lost, 8-5.

I found out later that Coach Tinsley was reluctant to do anything, which would have resulted in me staying in the game. I was toast, and everyone knew it. This caused Jim Beard and Mike Hall to lead the college baseball version of Mutiny on the Bounty by warming up in defiance of Coach Tinsley.  Beard, despite having pitched yesterday was still our best option at this point.

And then the game was over, with the Mustangs losing, again. This was another loss in a bewildering season.  All it seemed to take was a wild pitch, a wild throw to a base, or a tiring pitcher throwing a pitch too close to the middle of the plate. We always gave it our best, however. The effort was always there.

I cannot change the narrative here.  We were in the midst of a season of losing baseball games that was confounding.  I read somewhere that we may have actually set a dubious record of some sort.  There has to be a lesson in here somewhere, right?

Here is what I think:

Playing hard every game in an epic losing season is a real tester.  And yet this team never quit; this team had a special kind of toughness.  For this reason, my teammates in that strange 1976 season, those guys I battled alongside, sweated with, felt disappointment with, laughed with, were some of the toughest ballplayers I have ever known.