My relationship with my mother was never the same after Little League. Well, it was never that great to begin with, but after the Orioles kicked me off their team, I forever viewed her through cynical eyes.The trouble started one warm spring afternoon in 1964. I was 10-years old and playing right field for the Orioles at Encino Park down in the San Fernando Valley.
It was a slow game without much action—especially in right field—which was just how my coach liked it after seeing me in action at practice.
As I stood their and cursed myself for not wearing my athletic supporter, I heard the screech of my mother’s voice, a sound not unlike two submarines bumping together. “Bob-arrrhhhh,” she spat out, coughing half way through Bobby.
I turned and looked at her. Actually, I gaped at her.
She was holding a hotdog.
“Here,” she said, motioning with the weenie. “I brought you something to eat.”
I recoiled in horror. “Mom!” I pleaded. “I can’t eat that out here.”
But she persisted. Eventually, I figured what the hell, strolled over to the fence, and went to work on the dog.
That’s when it happened.
All day, and not one single ball was hit my way. But no sooner had I taken a bite of ballpark frank than some punk kid connected at the plate, sending a slicing rocket to rightfield .
The ball landed with a dull thud and skipped toward the back fence. I didn’t have a clue to what was going on because I was talking to my mom, who wondered aloud seconds later whether I should do something about that pesky ball that had come to rest on the warning track.
By that time it was too late. The kid had already rounded the bases with and inside-the-park homer.
I was kicked off the team later that week.
I love you, mom, but I’ll never forgive you.
— Bob Hansen
Originally published April 1994
Vol. 1/Number 1
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