The Rules Reconsidered: A Wild Pitcher Wedgie What?!

I was at the jobbie three breaths shy of suffering a stroke. You see, unfortunately, some of my coworkers, being teenagers, were persuaded I am an old man, which naturally means my actual age of 37 has appreciated (or depreciated, as the case may be) into 50-something--though, to their credit, from the point of view of someone under the age of 20, what really is the difference between a person in their 30s and one in their 50s, or 90s, or dead?!). Needless to say, in the sacred space of peace between asking customer to customer if they wanted corn or flour with that, I delivered unto the fates a litany of curses and superlatives I cannot possibly reproduce here, lest Sports Illustrated ban me for life, and I don't want to give the Baylor administration the satisfaction.

The Robert, aka., the Doctor Robert, aka., Coach, taco shop's manager, was witness to my misery.

"What's the matter, man?" the Robert asked.

"I am surrounded by sadists."

"That's too bad. That all?"

"Seems like more than enough to me."

"Hm. How's SI going?"

"Terrible. I am SI's very own SI. I don't know anything. And despite my resolve of will, my brain refuses to act in obeisance to my volition's dictates."

"Bummer. But isn't it your job not to know anything?"

"Don't remind me! But no. For one, it's not my job. This is. It's my profession. And it's not not to know anything. But to appear that I don't. Unfortunately, it's much harder to appear stupid when you really are."

"Well, you're smart enough to see we have customers now."

I looked at him.

"If they were Furies haunting my very soul you would abandon me to their dribbling, blood-stained, serrated fangs, would you not? Would you not!"

Fortunately, once I regained composure, after a couple minutes resting my head on the counter, I saw that the two ladies were not Furies, anything but. They were, rather, the Payton and the Hannah, so congenial upon my meeting them a few weeks back that I volunteered to cover the equestrian team for the spring semester, though the only thing I know about equestrian anything is horses might somehow be involved.

"We read your article about the equestrian team," Peyton said.

"We liked it. It flowed very well," Hannah said.

"Did it sound like I knew what the hell I was talking about?"

"Yes," they promptly agreed.

"Good. Because I hadn't a clue."

"You had us fooled," Hannah said.

"We have another meet tomorrow," Payton said.

This left me with lips numb, assuring them I would do my best to represent the equestrian team in all its full-Frogdom glory. And that, if all else failed, I could simply lie. And it was then I received a telephone communication from the Barry Lewis.

"A new sport, new sport," the dear man said.

"What was wrong with the old ones?"

"Okay. Last weekend there was a competition. A wild pitch walk off."

"Oh God! Help!"

"What sport does that sound like to you?"

"Something involving prongs and cleavers!"

"Come on, sport. Think about it. The words. Wild. Pitch. Walk off."

"Barry, you can't do this to me!"

"What sport?"

"Well, considering there is a pitch, I would assume cricket."

At this point I heard a faint, but clearly audible, smack on the other end of the line, a pop, like a palm planting itself in a cracked forehead.

"Tyler . . ." the Barry Lewis said, slowly, enunciating both syllables, "TCU doesn't have a cricket team."

"Well they should! They have one of everything else!"

"Baseball, Tyler," the Barry Lewis said. "Baseball."

At which point I was affronted in a Proustian manner of involuntary memory the remembrance of things past, of being twelve years of age in right field awaiting a ball that never came when a line drive landed square in my short stop friend's nose, and the pop that echoed, echoed again on the other end of the line when the Barry Lewis slapped his furrowed forehead.

"The most treacherous sport of all," I muttered, and gulped audibly enough even the Barry Lewis could hear it.

"You okay there?"

"Fine."

"So we had a couple games last weekend and I think it might make a good rules. I wrote about it if you need reference."

"Thanks, Barry."

"Sure thing, bud!"

Click.

So, duly considerate, I read the Barry Lewis' recap of TCU baseball's competition against a girl named Cal. Evidently, TCU somehow had four points to nothing, then blew that. Then down by two, made a miraculous come back in the 9th only to blow that. Then another girl named Hope joined Cal in the 9th, but the two combined couldn't do anything to deter our boys from scoring twice. But the final defeat was sealed by a "wild pitch walk off," which in all my years I promise to any ear that will heed I've never heard in all my life. Thus, this Cal and her friend Hope buried all of Frogdom in despair.

It was then I called the Barry Lewis.

"Hello?"

"Barry? That play? What was it called? Pitcher wedgie what? Something."

"You make me laugh," Barry said. "Wild pitch walk off."

"Yeah that. What happened."

"Somebody," Barry said (though he didn't say somebody, the man presumably has a name I can't remember. All I know is it wasn't Cal.), "was a pinch hitter. He got a triple. And then one pitch later our guy threw a wild pitch. And their pinch hitter ran over the plate for the win."

"You mean pitch hitter?" I asked

"Tyler, a pitcher pitches. A pinch hitter bats," he responded.

"Pitch. Pinch. Whatever. So we won?"

"No. Cal did."

"How dare she!"

The Barry Lewis laughed. "It was sad. But like all tragedy it makes for good comedic material."

"So this wild pitch wedge. . ."

"It isn't golf, Tyler."

"Right. So this wild pitch walk . . ."

"Wild pitch walk off, yes."

"Cost us the game."

"Correct."

"Then it can't be fair."

"Fair and square. That's the rules."

"And that's why they are to be reconsidered."

"Correct."

"But only when we lose."

"The boy is learning."

"Okay, Barry. I'm on it!"

So, I would like those who determine the rules to curb your sadistic instincts. Let us start by having rules that reasonably intelligent rational beings everywhere can remember. Having said that, it hardly seems polite that after nine innings of battle, another team can simply bring someone fresh off the bench to face an inexperienced pitcher. And if such rudeness may be permitted, it is my staunch position, impermeable to persuasion otherwise, that the catcher should be able to tackle the gentleman on his way home football-like before he hits the plate. And then proceed to beat him bare-fisted, if necessary, for just the sufficient time for the pitcher to return, ball in hand, to beat him further until he lacks all possibility of pitch hitting ever again.

WALK-OFF WILD PITCH!

BEARS WIN!pic.twitter.com/uorVVx1Tb0
— Cal Baseball (@CalBaseball) February 19, 2022

And though I have plenty further to add, it is probably best that I leave this piece as is. I have to read up on sports involving horses--namely to determine whether equestrian Fences refers to horseback sword-fighting, or good old-fashioned jousting.

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