Backyard Bloodsport

By Terry McLane
Like so many kids, who think they know their little corner of the world inside out, there was a time when I believed I knew my big brother better than anyone, probably better than he knew himself.  But then came that summer we discovered whiffle ball. And Brian and I didn’t play whiffle ball.  We consumed it. Swallowed the game whole and did so pretty much from sunup to sundown.  We played whiffle ball, in fact, from first thing every morning, right after our bowls of corn flakes, until dad got home for dinner that night.

But, as I said, I thought I knew Brian. That’s why, when we first started playing, I always volunteered to pitch and let him hit.  Physically, he just wasn’t big enough or strong enough to be far enough away to pitch without putting himself in danger of getting beaned in the noggin by a line drive.  So, initially, anyway, I did all the pitching, and he did all the hitting.

Which was the first thing I learned about my brother that summer. His body may have been small and broken beyond repair, but he possessed some of the greatest hand/eye coordination I’d ever seen in a person.

As we were setting up the ground rules that summer, he and I had also discovered a way to remove one of the arms of his wheelchair so that he could bat more feely.  And even though he couldn’t really move his lower body to any degree, and couldn’t gain any leverage whatsoever with his legs, like most hitters, Brian would consistently crush the ball and beam like an idiot every time he did so.  Time and time again, and with minimal movement, he would flick his wrists and send line drives after to all parts of the yard and beyond.  And, of course, he’d giggle like a fool as he watched yet another whiffle ball he had crushed arc it's way majestically toward the neighbor’s yard, just across the street.

But, eventually, of course, given Brian’s nature (if not our hyper-competitive relationship), he told me he wanted to play real, nine-inning games. This, obviously, required him to pitch, something that, as I said, put him in harm’s way. Nevertheless, every three outs, Brian would wheel his chair to no more than twenty feet from home plate, turn, and start pitching to me.

The first time it happened, I thought I might have killed the poor guy. The ball – which was hard plastic, to begin with, and could cut through the air at a surprisingly high rate of speed – came off my bat and hit Brian square, sending his glasses flying and almost knocking him out of his chair.  I raced to see if my brother was alright and to apologize. But Brian would have none of it.

“Get back there,” he said. “That’s an out.  It didn’t reach the driveway.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Get back in the box,” was all he said, a huge red welt forming on his left cheek just below his glasses and moisture in his, now, even more, resolute eyes.

And that’s the way it went all summer long.  We’d play whiffle ball for hours on end, and every so often, a ball would whiz by Brian’s head or hit him flush in the face or chest.  And every time the latter happened, even as he held back the tears and tried like hell not to rub where he’d been whacked, he’d look up at me and say defiantly, “That’s an out.”

That summer of whiffle ball, I learned two things. First, if he hadn’t been born with that God-awful disease, I learned that my brother would have made one hell of a shortstop, much like his favorite player, Luis Aparicio – because back in the day, his hand/eye coordination was as good as it got.

But, more important, that was the summer I first came to realize that my big brother, Brian – the undersized, sweet-swinging, giggling, Aparicio-loving thirteen-year-old destined to spend his life in a wheelchair – was as mentally tough and as courageous as any grownup I would ever know.

To some, Terry McLane is a retired husband and father of six who now spends his days enjoying the splendor of the Lake of the Ozarks, a genial Irish lad who parlayed a simple bartending gig into a long and successful career in management with the Marriott Corporation.  To me, he's more. He's my hero. And my best friend.    BM