Excerpt

The first memories I have of my childhood are of me and my father, James Mathis, playing catch in the backyard.  I was about 5 years old and even back then I can remember my father telling me that I would someday play for the Yankees.  I’m not sure I believed him then or not, but the seed was firmly planted.

“Jackie if you listen to me, we can go all the way to the majors,” he would say.  “I can see you in pinstripes now.”

I would hear that mantra the whole time I was growing up.  Even then I could see my mom, Ellen, looking out the window shaking her head and smiling.  Over the years that smile would fade away, and so would she.

“Jackie pay attention to what you are doing, not your mom,” my father would say.  “You always have to keep your eyes on the ball.”

I know I didn’t realize it then, but my father had a subtle way of brushing my mom to the side and making her insignificant.  Unfortunately over the years he would be less subtle.

“You can’t worry about the people watching you; they can’t help you when you are on the field.  Stay focused, that is the only way to succeed and reach our goals,” he would say.

I would then pull my hat down so that it almost completely covered my eyes and throw the ball back to him as hard as I could.

“Thata boy, get angry,” he would respond.

Anger and I would become real close in the coming years.

I was an only child born August 1, 1971 in the small village of Greenville, Rhode Island.  My father always told me he was happy I was a boy, for he had no idea what he would have done with a little girl.  He owned a small hardware store in town that did a decent business, but he never seemed happy with his work.  He would come home and complain about his customers and how helpless they all were.  He was an All-American baseball player at the University of Texas and even played in the low minors in the Giants organization before he blew out his elbow.  Although his arm would be physically fine he never seemed to recover from the injury mentally.

My mother was “just a housewife” according to my father.  She was a very quiet woman, even with me.  She always made sure I was dressed in nice clothes and kept me well fed with home cooked meals, but she always seemed a little distant.  That was probably because of my father, who ruled not only with an iron fist but also an iron tongue.  If you stepped out of line he always came up with the perfect words to take you down a notch, the kind that stung and buzzed around in your head, like an angry hornet trapped in a glass jar.

The one thing my mother passed on to me was an appreciation of music, something my father said was a complete waste of time, probably because he had no talent in that area.  She would often sing when we were alone, never when my father was around.  I believe these were her happiest moments.  She would sing James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend” to me at night sometimes, telling me the song was number one on the charts when I was born.  She sang in her chorus in high school and dreamed of a career in music, a dream that was long dead and buried by the time I came around.

My dad and I would play catch like this all summer long, with my father dispensing his thoughts on various topics as he would do for years to come.  It was 1976 and the country was celebrating its bicentennial.  My father would tell me what a great country we lived in and how the opportunity was mine, I just had to grab it.   I remember seeing the tall ships in New York and the huge fireworks displays across the country.  The country seemed to get swept up in a wave of patriotism and my father was not immune.

The wave of good feeling quickly left my father when October arrived.  The Yankees were taking on the Reds in the 1976 World Series.  My father’s mood often mirrored the fortunes of the Bronx Bombers.  The Yankees were in the series for the first time in twelve years so that made my father happy, but the fact that they got swept, sent his emotions to the other end of the spectrum.  I can remember him cursing at the Big Red Machine and especially their catcher, Johnny Bench.

1977 for many people will always be remembered as the year Elvis Presley died.  Elvis was a shell of his former self at the end but still had amazing star power.  Who else could get away with wearing sequined white jumpsuits and still be considered somewhat cool?  His career is often looked at as two separate periods, the young Elvis and the old Elvis.  The young Elvis had hit after hit on the music charts, starred in movies with the most beautiful women of the era, and was the essence of cool.  The old Elvis liked drugs and fried peanut butter sandwiches too much, became a virtual recluse, and was defeated by his demons.  Elvis hadn’t had a top ten single since “Burning Love” in 1972.  In 1977 the airwaves were being dominated by Debby Boone’s “You Light up My Life” and Andy Gibb’s “I Just Want to Be Your Everything,” not quite up to the star wattage of Elvis.  Years later, coincidentally, Gibb would lose his battle with drug addiction just like Elvis, so I guess they did ha
ve one thing in common.

1977 was memorable to me for three other reasons.  That summer was the first time my father allowed me to swing a bat.  I loved taking my cuts even though I rarely made contact.  Even back then I was swinging from my heels, trying to hit it as far as I could.  Sometimes when I did make contact the bat would cause my hands to sting, but that didn’t faze me in the least, in fact I kind of liked it.  My father always insisted I use a wooden bat.  “Just like they do in the majors,” he would say.  My father would spend hours teaching me my swing, correcting things I was doing wrong.  At first he was almost gentle and beamed with pride at his little boy.  The problems started when I repeated the same mistake, which was something my father couldn’t stand or understand.

“What is wrong with you, are you retarded?” he said more than once to me.

I responded at first with tears, but that just made him angrier.

“Boys don’t cry.  Crying is for babies and little girls,” he said.

I would learn to respond to his insults with anger, which was something he was all too familiar with and strangely respected.  I would grip the bat tighter and try to hit it right back at him as hard as I could.  The scary part of all this is in a weird way his teaching style seemed to work with me, to some extent.  When he insulted me it drove me to try to prove him wrong.  He was harsh with me, yet I still craved his approval.  I didn’t hate him yet; hell I was like a dog just looking for a pat on the head.

The second memory of that summer was my mother’s car accident.  She was driving down Church St. in town when a cat crossed in front of her and she slammed on her brakes.  She missed the cat, but unfortunately an older gentleman behind her didn’t notice her braking and hit her from behind.  My mother’s head snapped forward and hit the steering wheel, leaving a nasty bump on her forehead and injuring her neck.  She wore a neck brace for the next three weeks.  She never complained about the pain I could see she was in.  She still took care of me and the house, yet my father would still find fault and ridicule her.

“I just don’t understand why the hell you would slam on your brakes for a worthless cat.  I would have just run the damn thing over,” he said.  “Just another reason why women shouldn’t be allowed to drive.”

About a week after the accident I found my mother crying.  It would be one of the few times in my life that I would see her shed a tear, though my father gave her many reasons to.  When I found her I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing and turned around and left the room.  Looking back years later I felt like I just left her there to twist in the wind all by her lonesome.  I was only six years old at the time, but maybe just a hug would have helped ease some of her pain.  This may have been the first time I let my mother down, but it would soon become a ritual.

The third memory was a much happier one, at least for my father.  The Yankees were back in the World Series for the second straight year.  The Yankees were able to win the series against the Los Angeles Dodgers four games to two.  New York finished the series with the help of three home runs from Reggie Jackson in game six.  My father was so happy after that game and told me that I could do the same thing one day.  It was probably then that I first wanted to be like Reggie.  He concentrated on hitting home runs and getting RBI, rather than worrying about his batting average.  Reggie struck out a lot, but when he made contact people took notice.  Reggie was a star and seemed to be able to do whatever he wanted.  Reggie had the power in more ways than one.  He was a star and he knew it and he wasn’t going to take any grief from anyone.  He was going to do it his way or he wasn’t doing it at all.  Reggie, at this time, was the young Elvis of baseball.

1978 started off with a bang with one of the biggest blizzards that Rhode Island had ever seen.  On February 7 and February 8, a nor’easter blasted us with over two feet of snow.  The storm took the state by surprise with what looked like just a few flurries on the morning of February 7, turned the state on its ear by mid afternoon.  Snow was falling at a rate of three inches an hour at times.  Over 3,000 cars were stuck on the highway and the surrounding area in Providence, with many people spending the night in their cars.  Others just decided to abandon their cars altogether.  Winds reached over 50 miles per hour and caused many to lose power.  Over 25 deaths were blamed on the storm and over 30 people were arrested for looting.  The storm brought almost all of Rhode Island to a standstill for about a week.

Because of the storm we missed an entire week of school, which I enjoyed.  I did start to think that spring was never going to come and the snow would be here until sometime in May.  It was about this time that baseball really became my life, and would remain that way for many years.  I couldn’t wait for spring to come so that I could start throwing the baseball around.  Thankfully the rest of the winter went by without much snow.

I played in my first midget league game in 1978.  This was the first time that I had anybody besides my father try to coach me.  Midget league was the step below Little League that was for kids 7 and 8 years old.  In midget league the coaches pitch instead of one of the kids, nowadays the kids would probably hit from a tee. During the games nobody kept score and we played three innings, with each child batting once in each inning, no matter how many outs were made. I still swung like Reggie Jackson, only from the right side, taking big cuts and trying to drive it as far as I could.  Just like Jackson I struck out in bunches, especially this year.  My coach, Mr. Thomas, tried to get me to change my swing, but as with most of my coaches I wouldn’t listen, I just followed my father’s advice.  I played for the Red Sox that year, which for most kids in Rhode Island would have been great but for a Yankee fan was a cruel twist of fate.  I wore the red jersey with Red Sox splashed across the front in cheap blue letters, but I imagined one day I would wear the pinstripes and have a candy bar named after me like Jackson had the Reggie Bar.

My father came to most of my games that year, as he would until around high school when he was asked to stay away.  He didn’t cheer like the other parents would, but he would let me know if he didn’t think I was concentrating hard enough.  Many of the kids ran around without much direction, a controlled kind of chaos.  In my mind I wondered why these kids didn’t take this more seriously.  How would they ever hope to play in the majors when they didn’t even seem to care?  It also bothered me that we didn’t keep score, how would you know who won and who lost?  Midget league wasn’t baseball like my father had taught me, it was baseball light.

My father would drive me home after the games and tell me what I did right, and then in more detail tell me what I did wrong.  I would sit there beside him in our Chevy Nova and try to absorb what he was saying, making adjustments in my next game.  I wanted to make him happy because it meant less yelling, and if I had a good game it meant ice cream, a small chocolate chip cone at Fred’s Ice Cream Shack to be exact.

Baseball seemed to be the only thing my father and I had in common.  When we talked it was usually about baseball, but at least we talked about that a lot.  I remember one point late in the baseball season when my father told me about California Angel, Lyman Bostock.  Bostock was murdered in Gary, Indiana after a game against the White Sox.  My father said Bostock was on the verge of being a superstar in baseball, but instead died at the age of 27, with a lifetime batting average of .311.  I always wondered what he would have done had a crazy man with a gun not taken his life.  It was an early lesson in being careful who you surrounded yourself with and where you hung out.

Just a short time later that season the Yankees won the World Series.  They beat the Dodgers again in six games, this time rallying from two games down, to take four straight.  Rallying back from a deficit was old hat by now for these Yankees.  The Red Sox held a 14 game lead over the Yankees on July 17.  In the next ten weeks the Yankees would wind up tying the Red Sox for the division lead.  Since they were tied after 162 games they needed a one game playoff to determine the winner.  The game would be played at Fenway Park on October 2.  The Yankees would battle back from two runs down in the seventh with four runs of their own.  Bucky Dent was the hero that day hitting a three run home run that barely cleared the Green Monster, the 37 foot wall in left field at Fenway Park.  The Yankees would hold on to win the game 5-4.  From that day on, Dent’s name would be a curse word in New England.

The Yankees were led by Ron Guidry in 1978.  The lefty pitcher nicknamed Louisiana Lightning, had a record 25-3 and got the win in the playoff game against the Red Sox.  Guidry won the American League Cy Young Award that year, and finished second to Jim Rice, of the Red Sox, in the American League Most Valuable Player Award voting.  My father and I would talk for years about Guidry’s 1978 season; my father believed it just may have been the best pitching season of all time.  Even though I was a hitter at heart, my father would teach me to respect the art of pitching.

I relied on school and my mother to teach me about everything else in life.  My mom and I talked a little about the Jonestown tragedy when it happened.  Jonestown was built as an isolated religious community by Jim Jones and his followers in Guyana, South America.  They were on the run from the United States government for tax evasion.  People who escaped from the community later told of beatings, murders, and a planned mass suicide.  United States Congressman Leo Ryan led a fact finding mission down to Guyana.  As Ryan was leaving he was murdered by members of Jonestown.  Later that day Jim Jones started the mass murder-suicide that claimed the lives of over 900 members, that included people drinking cyanide laced Flavor-Ade.  My mother did the best job she could explaining the events that took place to me, though I’m not sure anyone could ever really explain Jim Jones.  My mother rarely sugar-coated things, but rather gave me the facts and answered the questions I might have as straightforwardly as possible.  I started to realize that some people’s actions just didn’t make any sense and that some people are just plain evil, yet even at an early age I wanted to figure people out.

My mother had a pretty quiet year, my father doing a pretty good job keeping his anger in check.   We listened to the radio together quite a bit in 1978, and the airwaves belonged to the Bee Gees.  The soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever, which prominently featured the Bee Gees, was all the rage.  “Stayin’ Alive,” “Night Fever,” and “How Deep is Your Love,” were all chart toppers for the Bee Gees. Disco was in full swing and so were the ugly clothes that went along with it.  I was dressed in flared pants and button down shirts with huge collars, what was my mother thinking.  In later years when I heard a Bee Gees song I would think of these times and feel a tiny smile creep across my face.

1979 was a horrible year for my family.  On January 17 my father’s hardware store burned down and was a complete loss.  On the good side the store was completely insured and was rebuilt in about seven months.  The bad part was that for most of those seven months my father was home, with little to do to keep him occupied.  My father being around the house was like an innocent person being sentenced to prison for my mother.  My father played the part of the warden, constantly criticizing how she did things and how she could get more things done if she was more efficient.  The ironic part of all of this was seeing my father give my mother advice on housework, though I had never seen him lift a finger to help out.  Any little crisis that happened during this time was blown out of proportion by my father and my mother was always to blame.   I remember the washing machine overflowed one time and my father hit the roof.  He started yelling at my mother, “You idiot you put too much clothing in here and now all this water is going to ruin the floor.”  My mother had been using this washer for over seven years, without a hint of a problem, and all of the sudden she forgot how to use it?  It seemed clear to even my eight year old mind that it just wasn’t the case.  My mother just cleaned up the mess without a word or a tear, as she usually did.

I wasn’t helping the situation at home either.  I was in third grade and I was starting to struggle in school, more specifically I was having trouble with math.  I never really cared for math, unless it had to do with baseball statistics, and once I started to struggle I started to act out.  Although I am not proud of the fact, if things didn’t come easy to me I usually chose to quit rather than put in the hard work, the only exception was baseball.   The fact that I had basically quit math did not sit well with the nuns at my catholic school.  Sister Catherine, my third grade teacher, tried hard to give me the kick in the ass that I needed, but I definitely got my father’s stubborn streak and rebuffed her efforts.  She kindly offered to tutor me after school, but I already was sick of school so I wasn’t keen on the idea of signing up for more.  Then the school got my parents involved and I quickly changed my mind or more accurately had it changed for me.  This would be the first time I can remember my father hitting me, but it wouldn’t be the last.  I knew I was in trouble from the moment I got home from school and my father said he wanted to talk to me.

“Jackie, Sister Catherine called me today and said that you are failing in math.  What do you have to say for yourself?” he said.

Although he asked me what I had to say for myself he really wasn’t looking for a response.  He cut me off as soon as I started talking, though that may have been a blessing for I had nothing for an answer.

“Jackie I am not going to put up with this crap,” he yelled at me.  “You will do the work that is asked of you, without any questions.  You will respect your teachers and shut your mouth.  If you need help you can go see your mother that is what she is here for.”

“And just to make sure you understand me,” my father at this time started to take off his belt.  “Come here,” he growled.  He bent me over his knee and smacked my butt five times with the belt.  Tears came to my eyes, but I would not cry, I was trying my mother’s way of dealing with my father.  As it was happening all I could think was how much it hurt, and yet thank God for pants because at least that cushioned the blow a little bit.  My father only said one more word to me that night, as he pointed to the stairs that led to my room, “March.”  I went up to my room and sniffled on my bed for awhile.  Neither my father nor my mother came up to see me that night, as I went without supper and tried to sleep.  I could hear my parents arguing a little later, though I could not make out what they were saying.  I am pretty sure they were fighting about me.

The rest of the school year I stayed pretty much on track.  Math was still a giant pain, but I plowed through the best I could.  I stayed after school to work with Sister Catherine and she helped me out as much as she could.  I stayed away from home as much as possible, which was strange because I hated school too.  I really didn’t have any friends, so I couldn’t hide out at their house.

Spring arrived and my father wanted to start working on baseball drills with me.  I was still holding a grudge about being belted, so I lied and said I had homework to do and I stayed up in my room.  This would go on for another couple of weeks, before I broke down.  I was trying to hurt my father, but my love of baseball broke my spirit just the way my father wanted it to.

“We’ve got a couple of weeks to make up for Jackie, so that means double the work,” my father said before we started our first baseball lesson of the year.  “And just remember Jackie, I’m always right.”

In 1979 the United States was experiencing our second energy crisis in seven years.  The 1979 crisis was brought about by production issues in Iran due to a revolution, which brought the Ayatollah Khomeini to power.  This disruption led to shortages, high prices, and long fuel lines at stations.  My father would complain mightily about the rise in gas prices, he was sure it was a conspiracy by the oil companies to gouge American consumers.  It was just another thing to light his already short fuse.

I was now in my second year of midget league and was getting better game by game.  With my father not working, we worked day and night on infield drills and my swing.  I was easily the best and most serious player on my team.  I played second base most of the time and occasionally played third base, my true love.  By the end of the season I was scorching the ball unlike any other eight year old in the league.  The kids would automatically back up when they saw me approach the plate, and at that age it was the ultimate form of respect.  My dad and I would go out for ice cream at Fred’s so often that year that I got sick of chocolate chip and switched to strawberry.

On August 2 of 1979, one day after my eighth birthday, Yankee fans across the nation, including my father, were rocked by the news that Yankee captain Thurman Munson died in a plane crash.  Munson was at the controls of a twin-engine Cessna practicing take offs and landings.  In his third practice run the plane missed the runway and crashed killing Munson and injuring two passengers.

I remember watching my father as the special report broke the news of the Munson’s death.  He stared blankly at the television long after the report finished and didn’t say a word.  As seriously as my father took baseball this was like losing part of his family, if he had cared about his family.  He didn’t say much that night and I didn’t try to engage him in conversation.

In the next few days my father and I would talk about how much Munson meant to the Yankees.  My father would tell how Munson won the Rookie of the Year Award in 1970 and the American league Most Valuable Player Award in 1976.

“It was more than the awards, Jackie, Thurman was the heart and soul of the Yankees, their leader.  He played the game the right way, giving it all he had all the time,” my father said in an unusually quiet way.  “He wouldn’t take any crap from anyone.”

My father was happy when he heard that Yankee owner, George Steinbrenner, announced that Munson’s uniform number 15 would be retired by the Yankees.

The Yankees would finish the year in fourth place 13 1/2 games behind the Baltimore Orioles.  The Orioles would eventually go on to face the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series.  The Pirates used the Sister Sledge song “We Are Family” as an anthem that was embraced by the fans.  I heard “We Are Family” almost everywhere I went and grew to hate the song and the Pirates.

The Orioles jumped to a three games to one lead before the Pirates would come roaring back.  The Pirates, led by Willie Stargell’s three home runs, would win the last three games to close out the series.  I remember waiting for the Orioles to do something to take the series, yet they always found a way to come up just short.  The 1979 Pirates became the first team I really disliked.  I hated their ugly black and yellow uniforms, which seemed to change every game like this was some kind of horrible fashion show.  I disliked Willie Stargell because he just seemed old and fat to me.  I didn’t like Dave Parker either because he seemed so cocky.  What I liked least of all though was Kent Tekulve and his goofy glasses and even goofier side arm delivery.  It would become clear to me later in life why I hated Tekulve so much, because I never would have much success against guys who pitched side armed.

Everything in the world seemed to go a little crazy in 1980.  Even as a nine year old kid I realized that there was more around me than just Rhode Island and the United States.  Every night on the news you would see updates on the hostages in Iran, the most vivid memory being seeing them blindfolded and paraded in front of the media.  The hostages were abducted on November 4, 1979, from the American embassy in Iran.  Originally 66 people were captured, with 13 released in the middle of November 1979 and 1 more set free in July, 1980.  It would be 444 days before the release of the 52 remaining hostages was negotiated.  I remember the paper in my hometown kept count of the days on the front page, with a small American flag beside the number.  I didn’t quite understand what was going on, though we discussed it a bit in school, I just knew that these people hated us for some reason.
The Iranians weren’t alone in their hate for us; in fact there was a country that probably hated us more, the Soviet Union.  1980 was the first time I can remember my father watching any other sport besides baseball, as he watched the United States hockey team beat the Soviets in the Olympics.  My father was full of patriotism at this point and full of hate for “those commie bastards,” as he put it.  It was one of the greatest upsets in sports history when the U.S. won the game 4-3.  My father was pumping his fist and had a huge smile on his face when the clock ticked down to zeros and Al Michaels spouted his infamous “Do you believe in miracles, yes.”

With so much going on around me and around the world, it was about this time that I really started paying attention to the news.  I would read the newspaper and watch the news on TV as I got ready for school in the morning.  It wasn’t like I had to rush to school and play with my friends, because I just didn’t have any.  It was also a way to escape what was going on in my own house.  My father throwing insults at my mother for the smallest mistakes, or what he perceived to be mistakes.  I started comparing my father to the volcano, Mt St. Helens in Washington, which erupted in May.  Though, unlike Mt St. Helens, my father’s eruptions rarely came with any warning signs.  Of course I kept those thoughts inside my head, because if my father heard about it another of his eruptions wouldn’t be far behind.

Copyright 2008 Darren Pare. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Returning to the field, David was still fired-up about his BP session, especially the home run. He couldn’t wait to tell everyone that he hit a baseball out of Bayview Park, even though it was off a slow, hanging curveball.
Still unaware of what was about to happen, he noticed that the protective screens had been removed and that Gadsden was warming up on the mound. And, looking as if they were about to work on defensive drills or commence an intrasquad game, the players had taken their normal positions on the field. All of the regulars were out there, with the exception of Sanchez, who was replaced in left field by Tom Mandel.
Pittman then sprung yet another surprise on him. “So, David, have you ever dreamed or thought about what it might be like to actually face a real big league pitcher?”
“Certainly, Skip. Who hasn’t?”
A plethora of questions began to swirl through David’s mind. Was Pittman seriously thinking about pushing the envelope and letting him face Gadsden? Why would he do that and what could it possibly prove? Was the manager really that enamored with his hitting ability, or was it just whimsical curiosity?
Big league clubs often conducted local tryouts in quest of new and raw talent. They all longed for that “diamond in the rough”””a young and inexpensive kid who might eventually develop into an impact player. However, those tryouts normally took place in the springtime or early summer, and weren’t open to forty-five year-old men like David. Furthermore, players discovered at those tryouts were usually assigned to the rookie league or lower Class A clubs within their minor league system along with the players acquired via the June major league draft.
Putting his hand on David’s shoulder, Pittman said, “We’re gonna give you that opportunity right now. That is, if you want it.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” David was astounded by the manager’s offer.
“Well, let me put it this way. I’ve seen a lot of natural hitters in my day. After watching you swing the bat on Saturday and again today, I believe you have a gift. And I think Roy agrees with me.”
Nodding his head in agreement, Mathis said, “I concur with the skipper, David.”
“Skip, I certainly don’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, but do you really think I stand a chance against a pitcher like Gadsden? I mean, he’s quite a leap from the pitchers in the amateur league.”
“Well, that’s what we wanna find out,” the manager replied. “Is it a giant leap? No doubt about it. You may not even put the ball in play. So what? If that happens, no one will think any less of you. Even if you do hit the kid, it doesn’t mean anything’s gonna come of it. The point is, we’re curious to know if you can do it””and, deep down inside, I believe that you’re even more curious than we are. If you don’t at least give it a try, you’ll never know.”
It was then Mathis’ turn to inspire David.
“Son, I’m sure you have a great family and a good life. And, if you wanna just walk away, that’s okay. Everyone here will understand. But, like the skipper said, if you don’t stand in against that cocky kid on the mound, you’ll never know what you’re capable of doing, and it’s unlikely you’ll ever get another opportunity like this. It’s your call, David. What’s it gonna be?”
Immensely inspired by their words, David decided it was time to put everything in its proper perspective. First and foremost, he loved the game of baseball, which had always been a big part of his life. And, despite his apprehension about playing on Saturday, he had to admit that it felt completely natural. Walking away from baseball after Danny’s accident was his choice and his alone. That was what his heart told him to do at the time. Although his spirit was crushed, the dream survived””and lay dormant for twenty-nine years.
David believed that everything happened for a reason. There was a reason why Charlie asked him to play on Lenny’s team. There was also a reason why Lester Pittman attended that game and subsequently invited him to the workout. It suddenly became crystal clear that he not only wanted, but needed to seize this opportunity””not just for himself, but also for Danny.
Reaching deeply into his soul, David searched for and found the spirit of that tenacious young boy who grew up playing ball in El Cajon. Laying aside all doubts and fears, he looked Pittman in the eye and softly, but confidently said, “All right. Let’s do it!”

Read more about Pinch Hitter and Dean Whitney HERE.

Copyright 2008 Dean Whitney. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Back Handsprings: The Secret Techniques

Foreword

Any activity in life from taking a bath, playing basketball, even walking home after school carries varying degrees of risk for potential injury. An elbow in the face during a jump shot, a twisted ankle stepping off the curb, or a slip and fall getting out of the bathtub may cause serious injury.

There is also the potential for significant injury when learning gymnastic, acrobatic, and tumbling skills.

The key to success for any athlete  is patience, a desire to learn, and guidance from a qualified coach. Your desire to learn is obvious by the fact you are reading this book to learn and understand back handspring technique.

Note: The skills presented are based on one “average” (in size, shape, and fitness level) athlete, which may be illustrated for some drills and techniques . While the techniques presented may work adequately for this fictitious athlete, they may not work as well for the slightly overweight and less physically fit athlete. Some of you may need some preparatory work with strength training and nutrition.

Responsibility for the use and/or adaptation of these techniques is the sole responsibility of the individual using them. The information contained in this guide provides a base level of knowledge about gymnastics, acrobatic, and tumbling skills and training techniques for the back handspring in particular.

Contact qualified coaches from a local gymnastics or cheer program to guide you in developing effective techniques for a back handspring, as well as spotting skills and training methods specific to your needs.

Note to Mom & Dad

Throughout this book I will be talking primarily to the athlete, however, coaches and parents may listen in for information and ideas.

Parent’s, please defer to your coach’s instructions regarding specific advice on your daughter’s back handspring training.

When in doubt about a back handspring technique, always check with your local professional gymnastics and/or cheer coach for guidance.

Athletes, get ready to start your engines!

You probably receive offers in the mail every day for “get back handsprings quick” schemes. You may be disturbed at dinner time by phone calls from telemarketer’s trying to sell you the “latest” drill that will not only teach you the back handspring in ten minutes but make you popular in school and the person most likely to be discovered for a part in the next reality television show.

And, you know, for a very few that dream may come true but I wouldn’t bet a month’s supply of hair products on it.

My all encompassing goal for this book is that you learn how to do a back handspring SAFELY while having FUN learning. That means there are no shortcuts. Strength and flexibility will be the primary ingredient for your success in this endeavor, however, a safe environment (matting, spotters, etc.), an understanding of technique, and, of course, motivation are also important.

What I am trying to say is it will take focused effort on your part. There is no magic wand or special pixie dust to endow you with this skill.

It has been said that “repetition is the mother of skill,” and I believe that to be true, when you also add “feedback” to refine the skill, and “variety” to keep the whole process interesting and motivating.

It takes as long as it takes

I have not had the pleasure of meeting you in person so I can’t make a determination of your current level of fitness, your past background in acrobatics, gymnastics, or tumbling, or your current level of desire. I assume you have a high level of desire since you have purchased this book “ thanks, by the way.

So, how long will it take to learn a back handspring?

It takes as long as it takes and I do suggest that you take your time. You will refine the back handspring through hundreds of repetitions of drills and techniques. Long after you get your back handspring, you will review these skills time and again to continually refine your skill.

Throughout the whole process of learning a back handspring, I ask/desire/command you to focus on Safety (always), then fun, but certainly and without a doubt, I ask that you hold this one thought in your mind on every attempt: “I will do my best!”

Introduction

Welcome to “Back Handsprings: The Secret Techniques.” By the fact that you are reading this book, I can already tell that you are a determined and intelligent athlete. Your curiosity will be rewarded with several drills and skills that will make learning a back handspring a safe, fun, and
meaningful goal.

First, let me tell you that I have been a gymnast, coach, gymnastics club owner and author for over thirty years, so I do have quite a bit of experience teaching back handsprings “ literally hundreds of thousands (maybe millions) of them to gymnasts in recreational classes and team gymnasts, many of whom also learned how to do them on a balance beam, which is only four-inches wide and four feet off the ground!

I have also worked as a tumbling coach with cheerleaders at the high school and college level.

Let me be clear that this is a book for anyone who wants to learn how to do a back handspring whether you are a gymnast, a cheerleader, a dancer, a martial artist, or a stunt person “ in short, anyone  who would like to add a back handspring to his or her personal list of extraordinary abilities.

A back handspring is not a difficult skill, but it will require time and physical effort to make it a goal which is achieved in a safe and sane manner.

Before we continue, I have a question for you.

What is your experience with tumbling skills?

The reason I ask is you do need a solid grounding in the basic tumbling skills (I.E. forward roll, backward roll, handstand, and cartwheel, ) before moving on to a back handspring.

You can acquire these skills through physical education classes at school or enrolling in tumbling classes at a private gym, dance, or martial arts center. It won’t take long and the training in handstands and cartwheels will be especially important in learning a back handspring and other lead-up skills.

Okay, let’s break your goal (a back handspring) down to the four most important areas you need to focus on:

1. Appropriate Conditioning That means strength & flexibility and skill specific exercises.

2. Proper training. What you learn from this book combined with guidance from an experienced coach in a tumbling program near you.

3. The proper environment for learning the skill.  I know that cheerleaders, martial artists, dancers, and stunt persons will perform these skills in a variety of settings; however, when first learning a back handspring, I think it is safest to learn in a properly matted and supervised setting.

4. Overwhelming desire to learn the skill. You really have to want this skill to get it.  After all, how many “normal” people do you know who can flip over backwards then snap down and land standing on their feet? You will be one of a small, but elite community of athletes that can demonstrate
a body awareness that enables you to do such a skill.

Going for it!

Overwhelming desire will also help you overcome FEAR, which stands for False Experience Appearing Real. I have yet to see any athlete get hurt attempting a back handspring who was going for the skill 100%. Fear is normal. I was scared the first time I did a back handspring. Heck, I was still scared on my five hundredth attempt, but I went for it!

Going for the back handspring (when properly trained and prepared) 100% is the key to success. When your coach says it is time; give it everything you have and you will be pleasantly surprised.

Blah, blah, blah.

I know, you just want me to get on with it so you can get to working on your back handspring, however, I do need to touch on a few more things before we get to the training.

Safety Issues

For years, I advised my athletes not to practice back handsprings and other tumbling skills at home. Yet, when I review my childhood, I have to confess that I practiced back handsprings at home, jumped on the neighbor’s trampoline, and did all the things kids are still doing today.

I know that parents spot kids at home, and that many youngsters tumble in the grass. Heck, the jungle gym, and swing set at school are dangerous; even the family bathtub is cause for more injuries than this one tumbling skill.

The conclusion I came to is that kids will work on back handsprings at home no matter what I (or their coaches) say, so why not help them to be safe and train correctly? That is my goal with this book; to provide each reader the information on how to do a back handspring safely and
successfully in conjunction with a professional gymnastics or cheer coach.

Beyond this introduction, training for the back handspring begins quickly with special skills and drills. I ask that athletes, parents, coaches, and instructors be sure to read the material placed in the Appendix of this book. The material is no less important because of its position in the book design.

Again, thank you for reading this book. I hope that you learn your back handspring in a safe and enjoyable manner.

Copyright 2008 Rik Feeney. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Two ( 2) Chapter Excerpt from:
The Dick & Eddie Stroke Play Series,
Book I, Dick & Eddie at Eagle Glen
Hole No. 1
Par 4/353 yards from the Blue Tees/330
yards from the White Tees/Handicap-11

“I saw our competition hitting balls at the range when I drove in,” Dick said as he opened the trunk of the car to get his golf bag and shoes.
“I found out a few years ago if the two of us hit balls before a round we’d never get past the eighth hole. I would’ve needed a nurse and you would’ve died,” Eddie added.
“We’re still dedicated though,” Dick insisted.
“What do you know about them, Dick?”
“A couple weeks ago I watched them play all day in the group ahead of me out here and thought I had better check their handicaps. One guy was a four and the other a six,” Dick said.
“Did they play well? Can they beat us?” Eddie asked, while scratching his head with the bill of an off-brand golf cap.
“Tom Colton has the four handicap, and Lou Slagle the six, and both generally play to their handicaps. Colton was smooth and easy going, Slagle, hot-tempered and quick to rile. Slagle could be the better of the two except for his nature. King Lear with a golf club. The only thing he’s ever killed was the ground or one of his clubs. Slagle has been medalist in the men’s city tournament on more than one occasion, but nonetheless, he choked when the matches got under way, particularly when things heated up. Colton was unfailingly cool and collected. He won the city tournament twice and could be a calming influence on Slagle when he recognized Slagle’s growing impatience. Sometimes Slagle erupted without warning, and during a quick eruption, Colton couldn’t consistently calm him down. The guy was an enigma. They’ll beat themselves,” Dick responded, a glimmer of hope in his eye.
“Well, they’ll be loose and have no excuses,” Eddie replied, while he adjusted his golf cap, then hitched up his slacks and finally looked toward the morning’s beautiful, sea blue sky.
Dick loved people like Slagle, since they were wonderful targets for his subtle routines.
I’m Stewart Averal Quigley and I’ve been friendly with both Dick and Eddie for over twenty-five years and that makes me the logical choice to tell you about this round.  I probably know their games as well as any man alive, and on this particular day, guess who was caddying for Dick?  That’s right! Watching every shot and putt, and privy to most conversations, the chore provided all the ammunition I needed to pass this story along to you.  This was not the first time folks had heard from me about a round with Dick and Eddie.
Golf has always been one of the most complex, individual sports on the planet.
Through the years new players had described golf in numerous ways: They’re surprised at the difficulty involved; they’re baffled by forever repeating the same mistakes and amazed at the precision, concentration, rhythm and focus needed; most were filled with anticipation at the thought of their next rounds.
One-moment golfers were pleased with the direction their games had taken and the next they were frustrated and upset over a dumb shot, to the point of having nearly walked off the course.
Following a round they go home and analyze each hole. By the time they’ve finished, they’re ready to play another round, vowed never to repeat those lousy swings, dropped shoulders and short putts. The game had them hooked.
Anyone who’s never played golf, and only watched it played on TV, can imagine it simple to master. After all, the pros make it look as easy as riding a bicycle. One steps up to the ball and hits it forward. It’s all a matter of repetition. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. A few people acquire the skills more quickly than others but learning to play the game takes years.  Dick had a mantra;
“Mastering the game of golf can’t be done. No one has ever been able to do it.”
He adds,
“I will say a man or woman can come close to mastering a particular feature of the game.”
Golf demands complete concentration, exact timing, coordinated movement of various parts of the body, and the focus, rhythm and physical skill to put all of those attributes together without actually thinking about them as you play.  Dick had always said,  “above all else, to play good golf, you must keep your eye on the ball.
“Only you can stop you from being the best you can be,” Dick says with certainty.
The summer before, Dick and Eddie were resting at the 19th hole having a couple of iced teas at a course called Deer Valley. They overheard two gentlemen discussing their invincibility. The “Slick Brothers,” they called them, were telling two other guys how they’d suckered a couple fellas by playing mind games all the way around the course.
“Those two guys were fresh to have fallen for the double talk they were being handed,” Dick declared.
Shortly after the two chumps left the table, Dick and Eddie wandered over and struck up a conversation. The routine was generally the same every time one of these situations came up. When Dick finished with those guys (their names were Paul and Wayne), they begged Dick and Eddie for a game, as if it were their own idea all along. Eddie, meanwhile, playing the devil’s advocate, wasn’t sure if the game should take place.
They played two weeks later and Dick and Eddie beat them by eight strokes. They saw neither hide nor hair of them again.                  Â Â Â Â Â
 “Today reminds me of the time we whipped those two lads up at Hawk Bluff Golf and Country Club. They were stunned, didn’t expect to be beaten by the likes of us,” Eddie replied.
A creek crossed in front of the tee on the first hole, before getting to the fairway. The fairway doglegged left at about the 150-yard marker, and the creek crossed the fairway again twenty yards from and directly in line with the green. The pear shaped green sloped from back to front. The hole had no traps, but from the back of the green to the property lines was only fifteen yards. Austrian Pines growing on the course guarded the homes and made shots in or around them difficult. There were openings between the trees, but any shot from the area must be hit low and running. A mis-hit could leave you halfway to the green, and a ball hit too hard caused you to run through the green into the light rough guarding the front side of the green, coming up from the creek.
A few long hitters, right and left handed, have hit tee shots over the creek and into the light rough between the creek and the green, but most don’t attempt the shot; mis-hit balls go into the creek, duck hook, or fade left into a groundskeeper’s equipment barn.
Dick asked, “Are you gentlemen ready to conduct business?”
Tom Colton and Lou Slagle looked at Dick with half grins on their faces.
Tom stepped up to the tee with a six iron in his hand; his favorite shot off the first tee. He made a smooth take away and shoulder turn, and his transition move at the top was well executed. His move down and through the ball, initiated by his snapping left hip toward the target, provided good acceleration at impact. The ball landed on the right side of the fairway, inside the 150-yard marker.
“He uses those cord grips, Eddie. I have never liked the feel of them,” Dick remarked quietly to Eddie while shaking his head.
“I’ve tried them at golf discount places. They sting my hands,” Eddie remarked, scratching his head with the bill of his cap.
Dick looked at Lou who had been at the back of the tee; Slagle walked forward to tee up his ball.
“Eddie, Slagle has continually re-adjusted his grip. He’s unsure of how to hit the shot,” Dick said with a curious look.
Lou’s address was a bit awkward. He bent his knees and could not decide where to place the ball in his stance. He took a couple practice swings and addressed the ball again.  He set up with the ball in the center of his stance.
 “I hope he doesn’t play every shot the same way,” Eddie remarked quietly to Dick, scratching his head with the bill of his cap, and wiping his brow.
“I love this guy,” Dick snickered to Eddie from behind his glove hand.
Eddie looked at Dick and grinned.
“Are you O.K, Lou? You’re acting jittery,” Tom asked with concern.
“I’m unable to get set,” Lou replied disgustedly.
Finally, Lou bent his knees and had a good take away. His backswing took him parallel to the target line. His downswing accelerated from the inside, and contact with the ball was perfect. His five iron carried the ball to within five yards of the creek and dead center on the fairway.
“All the grip pressure and adjustment he went through, he should’ve used his normal grip, the result would’ve been the same,” Dick remarked looking at Eddie.
“I think he’s scared of you, Dick, your reputation and all, “ Eddie suggested with a grin.
“I’ve always had pretty good luck with the five metal off this tee, Eddie.” Dick was smiling while he looked at Tom and Lou.
“Yes you have, Big Boy,” Eddie agreed while he finished wiping perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Dick’s address and take away were unique. He always set up on the left side of a tee with an open stance. His belly stuck out a bit and he compensated for it with an upright take away, and on the way down, he’d cut across the ball hitting a left to right fade.  It had served him well for years. You could tell from his club selection he played from experience. The five metal powered the ball into the heart of the fairway, and it stopped short of the 150-yard marker.
“Good shot, Dick, right in the heart of the fairway,” Eddie remarked,
as Dick grinned in triumph.
“Me and you Eddie, get inside of my shot and we’re off to a good start.”
Eddie stepped up to the tee with a four iron in hand, hitched up his slacks and then teed up to the ball.
“I’m comfortable over the ball today, Dick,” Eddie said while taking an extra waggle.
Tom and Lou turned to one another and shook their heads.
“These guys have already started,” Tom told Lou with a queer grin.
Eddie had a smooth take away, his left arm stayed straight, and he made a good shoulder turn. His downswing transfer was excellent, and he drove through the ball with acceleration. The ball rose gradually with a nice draw and landed left center in the fairway about 140 yards from the green.
“Good shot Eddie,” Tom applauded.
Dick and Eddie had exchanged glances and shaken their heads by then.
They walked side by side to Dick’s ball and discussed possibilities for Dick’s next shot. He was 160 yards from the center of the green, and had to hit his five metal or take a chance on the three iron. If he choked up on the five metal, his ball would hit below and release up to the hole; he’d hit the same shot many times before. He had to hit the ball solid and decided upon the five metal.
“I’ve been lucky from here,” right Eddie?”
“Yes you have, Big Boy, it’s a joy watching you work from here.”
Dick wasted no time. He stepped up to the ball, took one practice swing and let the club do the work. The ball landed on the green and stopped 12 feet below the cup.
Tom stepped up to his ball. He was inside the 150-yard markers and decided to hit an eight iron. The wind was calm; It was the correct club choice. A clean take-away, followed by an accelerating downswing and solid contact, left his ball about five feet below the hole.
“Great shot Tom,” Dick told him happily.
“Thanks!”
Eddie stepped up to his ball. He thought about it for a moment and pulled the seven iron. He took the club away with no indication of trouble, but came through the shot with an open clubface that popped the ball up into the air.  It flew the creek, but landed in the grass short of the green.
Lou was ready to hit. He had chosen a pitching wedge for the shot. He made a short backswing and punched the ball. It was mis-hit and landed two feet off the right side of the green. He wasn’t happy, but remained in control.
“I haven’t seen you mis-hit a shot for a long, long time, Lou,” Tom declared with a surprised look on his face.
“The contact didn’t feel right.”
“Forget about it, nothing we can do now,” Tom replied indifferently.
Eddie arrived at his ball prepared to chip and run a wedge up to the hole. He hitched up his slacks, took a shortened backswing and hit the ball onto the green, halfway to the hole.
“Tough luck, Eddie. You looked like me hitting the ball,” Dick told him.
“I don’t get it. Maybe I’m not concentrating.”
Lou was at his ball and had pulled his wedge. He chipped the ball to within two feet of the hole and elected to putt out for a four.
Dick was ready to putt. He’d already taken a couple practice putts. He took the putter back low and slow, rolled the ball down to within one foot of the cup, stepped up and tapped it in.
“Good putt, Bud,” Eddie told Dick while giving him thumbs up.
Eddie had a putt of 10 feet left. He took one practice putt and rolled the ball straight into the cup.
Tom was up. He took one practice putt and rolled the ball up to the cup. It lipped out, and he also registered a par on the hole.
Scores on 1:
Tom Colton-4   Lou Slagle-4   Dick Patterson-4   Eddie Caldwell-4

Hole No. 2
Par 5/552 yards from the Blue Tees/524
yards from the White Tees/Handicap-3

“Well, Eddie, we did okay. I bet they never dreamed in a million years I’d come away with net birdie on the first hole?”
“Yes! I was surprised myself. “When you put the five metal 12 feet below the hole Slagle’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas.”
“When you made a net birdie, Eddie, I thought they were going to need a tonic. It’s to bad we have to record fours on the score card.”
“May I say, with reverence, you were wonderful on the hole, Dick.  Who said someone with limited skills can’t play good golf.”
“Yeah, right. Well, it’s a fool’s mouth you’re barkin from now, spoutin’ clever like you had a brain,” Dick replied with a grin, while he waved Eddie off.
“I don’t believe the banter going on between Dick and Eddie, Lou. We haven’t played with guys like this before.  They switch between concentration and joking around like it’s been scripted for them.”
“I know, Tom. If these guys can play as well as we’ve heard, they go about it in a peculiar way.”
“That may be, but what the heck do you think they were doing on the first hole Lou, taking a walk in the park?”
The second hole was a long par five. The elevated tee gave an unobstructed view of the green. There was the creek to contend with again, but it was only fifteen yards from the tee and seldom came into play. The rough, on the left, ran the entire length of the fairway. It was about 10 yards wide and ran up to a fenced-in farmer’s field. On the right were a few small trees. They’ve been a bother in some games but for the most part were not in the way of advancing the ball. A player could take the ball down and outside the line of trees or up the fairway toward the green. About 30 yards from and directly in the path to the green was a mid-sized bunker with a high back. Over the backside of the green was trouble since the balls generally ran downhill. The green sloped sharply from back to front. The result was balls rolled right down to the front, or worse, off the green. Tom and Lou had the tee. Tom stepped up determined.
Tom had taken the driver from his bag and set it up when a bird flew past his face. He backed off and re-addressed the ball. The take away was suspect, but he righted the ship and the downswing looked brilliant, with tremendous acceleration. The ball landed about 275 yards off the tee, right-center in the fairway. A great shot!
“Boy, you hit the ball with authority there, Bud,” Dick cheered and patted him on the back.
“Thanks, it felt good.”
Lou fumbled with his grip and then stepped away from his ball. Tom had hit the ball too well.  Lou used a bigheaded driver with no more than 9.5 degrees of loft. He addressed the ball more comfortably this time. The take away was fine but his club released too quickly, and the ball hooked and ended up 270 yards off the tee in the left rough with a poor lie.
“Well, I can remember when I couldn’t get it across the creek here, Eddie,” Dick recalled, with a peaceful look on his face.
Dick’s take away was quickly up and away and transfer to the downswing was well executed. The ball was hit flush and landed in the center of the fairway 180 yards from the tee.
“Good shot Dick,” Eddie was saying while shaking his head.
“Yeah, well struck shot Dick,” Tom agreed.
Lou shook his head.
Eddie stepped up to the tee with driver in hand.
“Be careful you do not turn it over too much, Bud,” Dick advised.
“Right, Dick, I’ll try and stay focused.”
Eddie’s take away was well executed. The downswing came from the inside out, and the ball flew down the right side of the fairway, drew toward the center and landed about 230 yards off the tee. His drives generally ended up 265 to 280 yards off the tee.
Dick was away, took out his three metal and had to hit it with everything he had. He lined up left of the target and on the downswing came across the shot. The ball flew down the left side of the fairway, worked its way back to about two inches inside the right side of the fairway, and landed in front of the 150-yard markers.
“Good shot, Dick.” Eddie said happily.
Eddie stepped up to his ball with a three metal and hitched up his slacks.  He took no practice swings and hit short of the bunker, 30 yards from the center of the green.
Lou was up and the rough caused him a problem. He finally pulled out a three metal and a mis-hit shot left him in the rough about 20 yards ahead. He set up to the ball again and wasted no time. The ball landed short of the bunker 40 yards from the green. Lou smacked his club on the ground.
Tom was 277 yards from the green and 247 from the center of the bunker. There was an area of fairway 10 yards wide between the bunker and the rough on the left, and he lined up to hit a fade. His three metal take away was fine and he transferred to the downswing with a good shift. His hips fired off toward the target and the three metal came into the ball with tremendous club head speed. The ball landed where intended and he was now 20 yards from the green, with his next shot from the front and back to the left of the green.
Dick Patterson stepped up to hit, took one practice swing with his five metal, set up to the ball and nearly missed it completely. The ball rolled to a stop about five feet forward.
“Nuts! Nice shot genius,” he muttered.
He walked up to the ball, took two deep breaths, and hit a shot squarely on the face. The ball landed five feet deep on the putting surface, 15 feet left of the pin, mid-green.
“Good shot Dick,” Eddie assured him as he clapped his hands, then scratched his head with the bill of his cap.
“I had to do something after goofing up the way I did,” he responded.
Eddie pulled a wedge from his bag, stepped up to the ball and hitched up his slacks. He made a three-quarter backswing and came through the ball off balance. He bladed the shot, and it flew over the back of the green, landed in the grass, and stopped before the hillside.
Lou was 40 yards from the flag and in the center of the fairway. He took out the sand wedge and hit the shot.  The ball landed five feet below the hole and backed up to the front edge of the green. His face was red as fire.
Tom was 20 yards from the flagstick. He took out a wedge and hit a low punch shot that checked up and stopped quickly 10 feet below the hole.
Lou had to get down in two to save a six and if by chance he made the first putt, so much the better. He read it for some time and then stepped up beside his ball. He rolled the ball to a stop one foot below the hole, stepped up and putted out.
Dick had a side-hill putt of 15 feet that moved with a left to right break. Hit firmly, it had a good chance to go in the cup. He took his normal two practice putts, relaxed and putted the ball to within one foot of the cup. He could not believe the good roll. Eddie gave him thumbs up as Dick quietly walked up and putted out.
Tom’s putt read straight up the hill, with no break. He made a good stroke, and the ball rolled true but stopped on the edge of the hole. He tapped the ball in the hole.
“Tough break Tom, it should have fallen in the hole,” Eddie remarked to him.
He glanced at Dick, who was shaking his head in agreement.
Eddie was ready and chipped downhill to a pin cut in the center of the green. He had too much speed and the ball rolled down to the front of the green. He looked directly at Dick, walked down to his ball, set up, and then rolled the follow up putt to a spot eight inches below the hole. He walked up and tapped the ball into the center of the cup.
Scores on 2:
Tom Colton-5   Lou Slagle-6   Dick Patterson-6   Eddie Caldwell-6

Read more about The Dick & Eddie Stroke Play Series and Dan De Ment HERE.

Copyright 2008 Dan De Ment. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.