In Praise of Joe Sobran
June 21, 2001
In most
peoples minds, I suppose, the name Joe Sobran conjures up a
trenchant political columnist and towering Shakespeare scholar. But some readers
of this space may also associate it with the writers 14-year-old grandson,
a promising baseball player.
Last year I reported that Joe had led his
league in hitting with a .510 average, secured when he got four hits in the last
game of the season. I also described the sensational fielding plays with which he
brought crowds to their feet.
This year Joe has dwelt with his mother in
Virginia Beach, far from the devoted grandfather who supplied his baseball genes
and molded him into perhaps the supreme sports talent of his generation. For the
first time in his life, Ive had to rely on the telephone to follow his exploits
on the diamond. Weve conversed after every game, my heart aching because
I couldnt see him in person.
Thats how I heard hed belted
two home runs in one game a few weeks ago. Hes growing up. He used to be
so little that I advised him simply to concentrate on contact, avoiding strikeouts
and leaving the slugging to the big boys. I cant tell you how cute he was,
the tiniest and most agile kid in the infield. His uniform always looked several
sizes too big, though he wore the smallest one on the team.
Not
anymore. Joe has grown taller than his mother and has filled out with a thick neck
and shoulders; I hardly recognize him from behind. And hes a pitcher now.
Actually, he started pitching a couple of years
ago, but he was erratic, with as many walks as strikeouts. Now its mostly
strikeouts. A couple of weeks ago he called to tell me hed lost a tough
game, 3 to 1, in which he struck out 18 batters in six innings, giving up one hit and
one walk. Hed struck out the first 13 hitters he faced!
So how did he manage to lose? Errors, he
explained. The catcher dropped the ball on the third strike several times, so
several of Joes victims got on base and scored. He didnt complain,
though; he never blames his teammates. He was satisfied to have done his best.
Hed used six different pitches; I warned him, as usual, against throwing too
many curves before his arm matures. (As usual, he shrugged off my warning.)
Joe did sound almost plaintive after his next
game, in which he struck out 10 in five innings and lost again because of errors.
Again he refused to blame anyone, but I got the definite impression that his
patience was being tried.
It was time for me to take a look at this
pitching phenom. I threw the dog and the cell phone into the car and headed for
Virginia Beach, arriving two hours before game time. Joe was scheduled to pitch in
what was expected to be the last game of the season.
When we got to the field, I felt a surge of
pleasure at the way Joes teammates parents spoke of him, as if
everything depended on him. And it was obvious they liked him very much.
Weve never had to urge modesty on him; it comes naturally.
As the game began, Joes fastball took
charge. It was much quicker than Id ever seen it. Nobody could hit it, fair or
foul. He also threw a few pitches that looked suspiciously like curves. Nobody
touched them, either.
In the first inning he struck out the side. He
did it again in the second inning. By the time he struck out the first two batters in
the third inning, I was getting ideas. But the official superstitions of baseball
forbade me to voice them. Meanwhile, his teammates were racking up lots of runs
for him, while giving up only one (on a pair of errors, need I add).
The final score was 14 to 1. Joe finished with
13 strikeouts, one hit batter and a no-hitter.
After the game, I made an all-out assault on
his modesty, pounding his back and yelling my innermost thoughts. He allowed
himself a faint grin. It didnt seem like a no-hitter, he said.
It did to me.
Joseph Sobran
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