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Number Two Can Be #1
Kenny Anderson was my sixth grade baseball team’s most
explosive player, even more than Josh Dachel, the MVP of the Bloomer Little
League. But Kenny’s explosiveness was not baseball related: it was bowel
related.You see, Kenny had a problem. He was known, on occasion, to drop a “deuce” in his pants. It happened approximately three and a half times from our kindergarten year through fifth grade (if you’re wondering how the half took place, use your imagination). The fifth grade incident was especially nasty. Let’s just say, underwear is not supposed to weigh two pounds.
It was the top of the last inning of our battle with second place Nelson Filter, and we headed to our positions. I took my spot at second and looked at the scoreboard. We were tied 4-4. As I was cleaning the base, Kenny ran to his spot in right field. If there was a place to hide Kenny, it was right field. Josh played center, and his Usain Bolt-like speed allowed him to roam the entire outfield, covering for Kenny’s mistakes. If there was ever a face of non-athleticism, it was Kenny. He missed every catch and had two hits on the year, and that was in batting practice.
After two ground outs, Jimmy Zweifelhofer, Nelson Filter’s feared power hitter, stepped to the plate. He constantly crushed balls over the left field fence, so Josh moved that direction. On the first pitch, Jimmy launched a rocket…to right field. Kenny’s eyes bulged like oversized grapefruits as the little white ball of death torpedoed directly at him. His feet were stuck in the ground, and he held his Wilson glove directly in front of his face. I sprinted toward him expecting the drop, but suddenly, Pop! The ball landed right in Kenny’s mitt.
“Way to go Kenny!” I shrieked, as Kenny seemed to force a smile and waddle to the dugout.
We were all confident in the outcome of the game. Kenny came in slower than usual and slumped into the corner seat. A nose-burning stench instantly devoured the dugout, and we knew Kenny had struck once again.
“No Kenny!” we bellowed. “What did you do?!”
A fight-to-the-death battle of King of the Hill commenced as our team clawed over one another, battling for the farthest spot in the opposite corner where even the life-saving oxygen was hanging on for dear life. We were jammed together fighting and shrieking like pigs trying to escape the butcher. The evil stench stalked us; the toxic gas filled our clubhouse and lungs. Like the star he was, Josh ignored the crowd and toxins and sat by Kenny, showing his teammate he was there for him, regardless of the smell.
It turned out that Kenny was first up to bat, but he stayed in his spot. We didn’t know what he would do, but he finally stood up, grabbed his Easton Bat, and slouched his way to the batter’s box. His head drooped in shame. Our team instinctively scanned Kenny’s pants, and sure enough, the evidence was soaking through, clearly visible for everyone to see.
Kenny stepped up to the plate and the crowd and both teams waited for the impending strikeout. The pitcher sailed a fastball right down the pipe… CRACK! Kenny crushed the ball to dead center. He took off toward first, and Coach Thompson sent him to second. Kenny rounded for possibly the first double (not to be confused with the other #2) of his life. The center fielder rifled the ball to the second baseman, but Kenny slid feet first under the second baseman’s tag just in time.
“Safe!” the umpire roared.
Kenny jumped up, a huge smile covering his face, his hands raised in jubilation. Our team erupted in applause from the sacred corner of the dugout. “Way to go Kenny!” We couldn’t believe that he had finally gotten a hit, even though he was weighted down in multiple ways.
Josh came up to bat as Kenny started to lead off. The pitcher again threw a fastball down the center of the plate, but this time he wasn’t so lucky. Josh smashed the pitch over the fence, sending Kenny home for the winning run. Grinning from ear to ear as he rounded the bases, Kenny trotted home. After stomping on home plate and turning for the dugout, he saw we were waiting to congratulate him. We held our collective breath and slapped his back, careful not to go too low. I hate to admit it, but most of us, including me, checked how gravity was rearing its ugly head. Surprisingly, everything was still lodged in the same place.
As Kenny shuffled toward his bike and squished onto the seat, Josh caught up to congratulate him. Kenny beamed with pride. He didn’t care at all about the sewage in his pants. I learned that day that a moment of success in sports is possible for anyone, even someone as intestinally explosive as Kenny.
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