I was about 15 years old, standing near home plate at the ball park in Norwich and swinging the largest milk-bottle-style bat my fastball team could afford.
I’m really going to connect this time, I thought to myself. (To say it out loud was not cool, neat or keen in the '60s).
And before stepping into the batter’s box I looked toward the third base coach for a sign.
Holy crap, I thought. (No, the coach wasn’t giving me the ‘swing for the fences’ sign, even though my practice swings must have looked pretty darn impressive).
I spotted Bobby Hull - my all-time favourite hockey player (his slap shot and mine are so alike!) - sitting over in foul territory. He was sitting right beside Dave Moore, my hockey coach.
Though I didn’t have a clue what adrenaline was at the time, I’m pretty sure about 16 ounces of the stuff shot into my arteries.
No lie. I came around on the first pitch so fast and hit so much of the ball I fired a veritable bullet straight toward Bobby’s head.
As you can see from the hockey card, Bobby’s head was the size of a melon. And that ball would have sent juice and seeds all the way down to the post office, almost 3 blocks away.
Bobby snapped his head back just in time and his legs flew up in the air, causing his lawn chair to almost tip over.
The ball smacked the car behind him with enough force to cause the car horn to blare - if only the horn had been working.
Dave Moore hollered and pointed at the damage to his car - if it was his car.
I stepped back into the box - rattled, with a heart rate of 412 bpm -and sent the next pitch higher and farther than ever before, over the left field score board and over the street that bordered the ball park. A few more feet and it would have cleared Mr. Hansen’s fence (if that was his name) and made me a national hero.
Of course, if I’d killed Bobby Hull, the national hero thing would have been cancelled and I’d be exactly who and what I am today.
***
Good reflexes, Bobby. You lived to play for the Jets and score your 1000th goal in Quebec, March 11, 1978.
I’m glad I could help.
.
4 comments:
I once stood in a long line-up for a personal appearance Bobby did at a car-dealership in Windsor when he was still with the Black Hawks.
Even though it took well over an hour before I was able to actually shake his hand and get an autographed photo, I never once thought of killing the man. You got me there, Gord. Great story.
Hi Sonny,
I nervously approached him after the game for his autograph and he greeted me warmly - with a comment I barely heard and forgot before I even left the park.
My ear drums may have been pounding due to excessive, leftover adrenaline.
Cheers, GH
Sonny,
PS.
Did he start w sweater 16 before receiving number 9?
That's my impression but...
I only knew him as a '9' - but apparently you are correct, sir.
Bobby was the obvious idol for myself as a kid, but as a Blackhawks fan, I had more respect for Stan the Man. At least he knew how to pass the puck.
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