I love baseball. Like most boys growing up in the St. Louis area in the 1960's, I was pretty sure that I would one day wear a Cardinals uniform and get the winning hit in game seven of the World Series. I was well on my way to such a future when two immovable forces seemed to intersect in a path to kill my dreams; Mom and the weather.
I was playing baseball the summer I turned eight in a youth baseball league. Our team was sponsored by Hoffmeister Mortuaries and we proudly wore their logo on our jerseys. We had wonderful uniforms; complete with pants, stirrup socks and Hoffmeister jerseys. The uniforms were just like the ones the pros wore; meaning they were very hot! It was summer in St. Louis so it was very hot even without wearing a hot uniform.
Heat and I have never gotten along very well...
Mom was certain that I would die of heat stroke on the diamond and insisted that I keep taking salt tablets and drinking lots of fluids.
Mom was certain of many things, and when Dr. Peggy got on a roll it was best to just go along for the ride. No amount of science or real life experience could trump her word. When Dr. Peggy dictated that I must follow her strict regimen for dealing with the heat that is exactly what I did.
The problem with Mom's plan was twofold. First, constantly drinking fluids - very cold fluids because the thermos had to be filled to the brim with ice before pouring the fluid in - caused me to have to run to the restroom frequently. Also, I tended to get sick to my stomach with the constant barrage of fluids.
I remember one game in particular. It was a brutally hot Saturday afternoon and we were playing in Forest Park. The sun beat down mercilessly on the field and benches. I was on the bench for the beginning of the game, but that didn't stop Dr. Peggy from coming to the bench regularly to force more ice cold water down my throat. I was sufficiently over-hydrated by the time the coach put me into the infield. Standing out there at second base was brutal. Not only was the heat oppressive, my bladder was constantly reminding me of how much water I had consumed and my stomach was stretched beyond its maximum capacity; tormented by the sloshing liquids it contained.
I survived the half inning in the field, but that was about the limit. Upon returning to the bench I released the liquid contents of my stomach into the garbage can. Dr. Peggy, of course, saw this and immediately diagnosed that I was suffering from heat stroke and informed the coach that I must be pulled from the game immediately.
No at bat.
No chance to touch the ball in the field.
The situation rapidly went from bad to worse when Dr. Peggy insisted that I should not be allowed to play baseball on hot days.
It was summer.
It was St. Louis.
Every day is a hot day.
This effectively ruined my chances of ever wearing the Cardinals uniform and getting the World Series winning hit in game seven.
My budding baseball career ended before it could even take wing.
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