A Memorable At Bat

April 19, 1985

Baseball and the boys of summer don’t owe me a thing.

Toronto didn't have a major league team when I was growing up. So when I was seven, in my final act as a social justice warrior, I chose the Cleveland Indians and the Pittsburgh Pirates as my two favorites. On the day I made my choice, Cleveland was in first place in the American League. Pittsburgh was in last place in the National League. I thought that was fair and it jump-started my lifetime affection for baseball.

Cleveland was on TV many Saturdays, so they were a practical choice for me. The Pirates sailed into baseball history in October of 1960, when they won a classic World Series. They also won in 1971 and 1979. The Indians have yet to win since 1948, which was the first World Series after I was born.

Later on, I was a Dodgers fan when I lived in LA in the sixties and a Blue Jays fan after their debut on that snowy day; April 7, 1977.

I joined a fantasy baseball league in 1984. My team, Margie's Marriage Counselling, named for my wife's business, included 25 American League baseball players selected from various teams filling all the normal positions. I was the owner/general manager and the fantasy fun was competing against others by comparing stats, making trades, dropping underperforming players and discovering phenoms.

Our owner egos were tied to the success of our players. If one of our pitchers was knocked out in the first inning, we would be devastated. If one our hitters had a four RBI game, it would be ecstasy.

At first, before the Internet gave us a steady injection of up-to-date news, we were mostly out of touch with how our players were doing until we checked the morning papers – unless we were watching or listening to a game and got some real-time news. Emotions could go from the sub-basement to the roof in a matter of seconds as news filtered in.

I was at the Blue Jays game the night of April 19, 1985 to see them battle the Baltimore Orioles. I had a few players in the game, but I remember only one because it was a memorable night for both of us.

Fritz Connally was a young player with little more experience than a rookie. I had drafted him onto my team because having a big strong guy like him playing for the Orioles was generally a good thing.

He came up to bat for the second time in the game in the top of the fifth inning. Facing him was Doyle Alexander, who had been throwing a perfect game throughout the first four innings, but was suddenly faltering.

When Fritz came to bat, there was no score, no one out and three Orioles on base; Fred Lynn had walked to open the inning. Mike Young was hit by a pitch and Jim Dwyer singled. Now the bases were loaded.  

It could have been a mismatch because Alexander was a highly paid veteran ace. But early in the season, Fritz was showing well. His batting average was in the high 300s.

I'm shy. I rarely do things that make me stand out. So I was a perfect Toronto fan at the ball games. Reserved and polite.

And that's the way I was thru the first few pitches of Fritz’s at bat, along with the other 20,213 fans, very few of whom had any idea who he was.

I had pretty good seats. Everyone near me was a Blue Jay fan, subdued with the Orioles up, the bases loaded and Doyle Alexander in a jam. But this time, because I was a Fritz Connally fan, I was far from subdued.

As the pitch count added up, got to 3 and 2, a full count, and extended pitch after pitch with foul balls, my temperature was rising. As was my voice. As was my butt off my seat.

As each pitch was thrown, I was screaming louder and louder at Fritz to crush the ball over the short left-field fence. He rose to the moment with one foul ball after another.

To put the final pitch of his at bat in perspective, while I have a vivid picture of it in my mind, I didn’t remember who I was with that night, when it happened, or even who won. I had to do Internet research to find out.

But I can tell you, on the 14th pitch of the at bat, after nine loud foul balls, Fritz Connally hit a screaming line drive that curved toward the left-field foul pole about 30 feet off the ground. And when that the ball cleared the fence for a grand slam home run, I sat back down, smiling in my own reserved way.

By the way, I had to locate and contact Fritz Connally personally to get the detail that it was a 14 pitch at bat. My memory was 13 pitches.