I was absent because I went for a motorcycle ride.
And you’ll be glad I did, especially if you think my story about almost taking Bobby Hull’s head off (and thereby keeping him from becoming the first NHLer to score more than 50 goals in a season) was completely bogus.
Oh, no. It wasn’t bogus.
Check the photos.
When I was 16, you would often find me at home plate, swinging the biggest bat our team could afford. (Home plate, team benches, even the bleachers, are long gone.)
Bobby Hull sat in a lawn chair on the third base side of the field with my hockey coach, about halfway down the fence line below. (There was no fence when I was a kid. Cars parked along that side too. Now impossible. Change is terrible, eh?)
After almost killing Mr. Hull, my next swing sent a ball over the left field scoreboard and walnut trees (one tree visible in photo), over the road (still there; roads are hard to tear down, or up), and almost over Mr. Haskell’s fence (still there, as is his sturdy red brick house).
Had I hit Bobby in the melon, seeds would have been carried all the way down the street (passed my motorcycle) and all the way to the post office two blocks away. (The old post office and museum are gone. All that remains is the old town clock in a new clock tower. Geez, I turn by back for a minute...).
Okay, I couldn’t get Bobby to come back to Norwich and sit along the third base line again to relive the moment (The ballpark is gone! It’s been taken over by playground equipment for wee kids.) but the memories of that fateful day live in my mind.
Sorry, Bobby.
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