"If you can't hold the bat, you can't hit the ball," grumbles Coach Tomaro pitching batting practice before the first post-season game at Branchbrook Park.
"Just let your finger fall onto the wood and the sting will go away," advises Coach Zujkowski as I step back into the batter's box for the next pitch.
"Better put him last in the lineup," Tomaro calls after another weak swing yields a feeble ground ball.
I was mortified that my bat had disappeared after the return from a laceration on the right middle finger. My maroon-colored Truckers, formally named Schofield Inc., had been in first place at ten wins and no losses when my hand got snagged on the top of a chain link fence I was vaulting over in the long dusk of late spring. After an hour of running cold water on it, the jagged gash was still dripping blood into our kitchen sink prompting my sister to run next door and beg the neighbors to take me to the hospital. Eight stitches, a splint, and thick bandages later, I was out of commission for the remaining games. We lost them all to end the regular season in a tie for first place with the Congers.
The finger was still bandaged for the playoff game so I switched from shortstop to center field to limit throwing. Hitting was even more of a problem because the splint kept middle and ring fingers from gripping the bat. I never forgave myself for us losing that close game and coming in second place, and my grip was still off when the all-stars started the next week.
The top of our lineup was what I thought of as Bound Brook's Italian army. At leadoff was Robert Corsini, a compact lefty from a family of builders. Rob's eye was a sharp as his bat, often anteing us up a base runner to start games or big innings. Next up was Mike Fassano, a stout and fearless player always in the middle of rallies or ruckuses. Batting third was Matt Vischetti, the home run champ of the regular season with fourteen four-baggers in fourteen games and an astounding batting average of .750 (three hits every four at bats). It's a good thing for the town of Bound Brook that Matt loved baseball - his family's dental practice had taken a bite out of the budget for hosting the state finals. At cleanup was Anthony Izzo, a handsome kid who could play any position and hit any pitch. Tony's single mom, one of the cooks at the junior high kitchen, gave Tony's teammates extra helpings along with a good Sicilian scolding on the way through the lunch line.
The guys on the Branchburg all-star team would be going to Somerville High School in a few years. The county seat school was larger than Bound Brook and often favored in Somerset County championship tournaments, and us small town kids already felt the weight and desire of the underdog.
“You’re overdue Vischetti,” mewls Coach Tomaro as our catcher steps up to bat with Rob on second and Faz on first base and the game tied 1-1 after two innings.
“Put him down,” chatters the Branchburg catcher as their pitcher winds up and heaves a low fastball on the inside corner of the plate.
“Thwack,” reverberates around the field as the ball sails over the fence in left-center and bounces at least thirty feet beyond.
“Was that down enough for him?” Matt exclaims coming into our dugout to our slaps and cheers.
Next up is Tony Izzo, our tall first baseman. He thunks the bat onto the plate, squares into a tight stance, and crushes the high and outside pitch to right center. It's two towering home runs in two pitches, and by the time the third inning slugfest is over we've scored eight runs.
"All right men, it's drinks on the house!" declares Coach Zujk in a post-game huddle at pitcher's mound.
"Yeah, and grab a hot dog on me," puffs Coach Tomaro through his cigar smoke as we sprint for the concession stand.
Final score: Bound Brook 14, Branchburg 1
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