Bourne Kid Sets World Record

WHY ME?

We may be the Cape's armpit but that arm can throw a ball

from CapeCodToday.com...There Is No Joy In Mudville... Mighty Casey Just Got Beaned at 115 MPH

I never actually thought that I'd break a major story when I started this column. It was mostly meant to be a sort of town bulletin board, where one could find out when the Selectmen are meeting, or what all those sirens were about last night.

This ballfield in the small town of Bourne turned out to be the scene of an amazing discovery....

I do little research at all, other than reading competitor's newspapers and rewording their stories with a healthy dose of my own opinion. I never went to school for Journalism, and have worked for no other papers than this one. I get to feeling sort of inferior, as this paper has old guys like Jack Coleman and Jeff Blanchard, who practiced real journalism when I was still writing about boys in my diary as a school girl.

So, of course, the biggest story that will ever be broken in the history of this paper falls into the lap of the girl who doesn't even like baseball, can't write a straight piece if her life depended on it, and who most likely should hand this story off to an actual professional.

"Sometimes, stories go to who they want themselves to go to. I have faith in you. Get to work." - the editor

I went to my boss (CCToday founder Walter Brooks) with my concerns, once I realized what I'd stumbled into.

"I've been in this business a long time," said Brooks. "Sometimes, stories go to who they want themselves to go to. I have faith in you. Get to work."

THE SETTING - "You gotta live somewhere"

Bourne, Massachusetts is a small town known mostly for the bridges it hosts that connect Cape Cod to the mainland. You can't get to Cape Cod in a car without going through Bourne. Locals refer to it as "the armpit of Cape Cod." We have a Maritime Academy, part of a Naval Air Station, a canal, about a dozen clam shacks and more antiques shops than you could shake a 1787 axehandle at.

It's a largely blue-collar town, home to fishermen, carpenters, painters, cops, mechanics and Wampanoags who can't afford to live in Mashpee. Our most famous resident is me, which isn't saying much. Our most famous landmark is the Rotary, and that is largely cursed at by those who drive in it.

It's small town USA, right down to the Scallop Festival and the Homecoming dance at the local high school. We have whites, blacks, Asians, Brazilians, Cape Verdeans, and even a Frenchman or two.

Bourne also holds at least one great secret, as most small towns do. We'll get to that in a moment, but I want the reader to understand that there is nothing special about Bourne- with the possible exceptions of the minor league baseball team or the nearby Pilgrim nuclear power plant- that would produce the sort of child who will soon become like a God in his chosen profession.

STRANGE TALES FROM THE SCHOOL ZONE

I won't name this child, as he is 14 years old and doesn't need a zillion people Googling his name. If he were a college kid, I'd go for it- fair game, and all. But I will not reveal the name of this child, although he will probably be a household name in both American continents and parts of Asia in 4-6 weeks.

I first became aware of this child through a friend of mine, who is a nurse at the local high school. We live near each other, and often meet after school for a glass of wine. On the day in question, she was complaining about Sports. Generally, this involved her husband watching sports when she wanted him to paint the garage or something, but her complaints were more pointed that day.

"I had two kids come to my office today with broken hand bones."

I was curious, and smelled a teenage Fight Club story brewing. "How'd they break their hands?"

"Playing baseball. The team has some kid from Louisiana, who is staying at the Air Station barracks. He did it." Bourne's Naval Air Station hosted/hosts scores of Katrina refugees, and their children all go to Bourne schools. I asked her to continue.

 "The first kid- a senior- comes into my office. He's trying not to cry. He holds up his hand, which is bloody and swollen. All the webbing between his fingers was torn open. That's beyond my abilities to repair, so I called an ambulance."

"Then, even before I put the phone down, a second kid comes in... this one has a broken arm. He's crying openly. As soon as they were both in the ambulance, I called their parents and stormed off to the field where the baseball team practices."

A good reporter knows when to ask questions, and when to sip wine. I let her continue.

My friend The Nurse knows less about baseball than I do. She thought that there was some sort of Bobby Knight-style abuse going on at the hands of the coach- who, I should add, is actually sort of a father figure to his players, and is widely loved around town.

"So... I get to the field, and everyone is in a big semi circle. Before I can find the coach, I hear this CRACKKKKKKKKKK sound, followed by exclamations ofwonder- 'Damn'...'Oh My God'....'That kid is a Freak.' I follow my nose, and find the coach."

"The kid leans back, twists his body around, fires towards the plate... CRAAACK.""I ask him what the hell is going on. He shrugs, and calls over the Louisiana kid.  The kid gets on the mound, looks to the coach, then towards home plate. Instead of a batter, there is a sheet of plywood propped up between 2 trash barrels. The plywood has about 10 fist-sized holes in it."

"The kid leans back, twists his body around, and fires towards the plate. I never saw the ball... just the CRACKKKK sound of a hole being punched through the plywood. The ball actually went through the plywood with enough force that it became wedged in the mesh fence of the backstop."

"Impressive, yes... but I have two kids in an ambulance, and two very nervous parents calling me non-stop. While I had figured it out by then, the coach explained to me that the two wounded students were the two catchers who had tried to handle this kid's pitches. I was sort of raining on their parade, and the coach concluded practice without any more damage being done to the plywood."

I was supposed to have lunch with Jay Miller the next day, in relation to a continuing story I was following regarding noise violations at his tavern. I cancelled that date, but decided to keep the reasons why to myself.

THE HILLS HAVE EYES

The next day, I was at the Bourne High School baseball field an hour before school let out. One old TV show kept playing itself through my head.

I forget which one it was, as it was on when I was a child. The basics were that an investigative reporter was doing an episode on the fairness of games at  a local carnival. He had shown several of the games to be fixed, and the one I was focusing on involved the old classic- knocking over three stacked milk bottles with  a baseball, from about 15 feet away.

The reporter had somehow secured the services of fireballing big-leaguer Tom Seaver, who was known to throw 90-100 mph. Seaver had great difficulty knocking over the milk bottles.... they were weighted or something, and onlysomeone with knowledge of exactly where to hit the bottles (or someone making an extremely lucky throw) could knock them over.

I was struck by just how hard Seaver could throw. The ball bounced off the milk bottles- toppling only the one on the top- and actually ended up about 20 feet behind Seaver. The one time Seaver missed the bottles entirely, his pitch snapped back the canvas flap of the tent... which, I was guessing, was not nearly as dense as a piece of plywood.

The coach was standing behind me before I knew he was coming. I didn't even try to hide my camera or my notebook. I- the press- was busted.

"I knew you guys would come," said the coach. "But I didn't think that you'd come this quickly."

"Semper vigilans," I replied with a guilty grin. I introduced myself, and then noticed the people behind him. The first, I later learned, was a scout from the Boston Red Sox. The other was Detective Richard Tavares, of the Bourne Police Department.

No need for Johnny Law, coach," I said, preparing my best Free Press argument. I then noticed that Detective Tavares had some sort of weapon in his hand. "Fascist," I sneered at him.

Tavares laughed, and said no more to me. The Scout asked him what the fastest reading he'd ever taken with that. "145 mph, on Route 28," the detective replied. I then realized that Tavares was actually carrying a radar gun, like those used to help catch speeding cars.

"Goddamn," I thought. "Does the kid have THAT much power?"

"Come on," the coach said. "You're in on it now, too." We headed over to the dugout.

ENTER THE DRAGON

The kids all came to the field together- black, white, Hispanic, Asian, mixed. I watched them for about 5 seconds, thinking of how baseball is truly an international language. Groups of kids were probably heading out to the diamond in 20 countries as I watched, from Haiti to Taiwan. These kids were no different. Class differences fade when everyone is wearing the same uniform, and these kids all looked alike to me.

Then the Pulitzer Prize I was seeking spoke to me, and I tried to figure out which of them was The Kid.

A solitary figure headed for the pitcher's mound. The rest of the kids- seemingly quicker on the uptake than I was- got in position behind Tavares and his radar gun. I later found out that it was a Decatur Genesis Versa Pak Directional Police Radar Gun, capable of recording speeds up to 237 mph.

"I called in a favor or two," said Tavares, who coaches a Little League team in town.

The pitcher doffed his Belichickian hoody. I was struck by how slight he was. He may have weighed 140 pounds, and stood not a half foot taller than my five-foot-even. He looked like he should have been off skateboarding somewhere. He rubbed his hands together- it was a cold day- and then put on his mitt and called for a ball.

"Anyone want to go out and take a few swings?" the coach asked. "I'd like to see him pitching with a batter in the box."

"F*** that," was the universal reply of the assembled players.

"Whenever you're ready, son" said Tavares, aiming the gun towards The Kid.

I meant to watch the radar gun, but I couldn't take my eyes off of the pitcher. He was standing with his back to the plate. He kicked a leg out to what would be the right-handers side of the plate, spun his body around violently, and came out of it with a very low sidearm/submarine delivery that actually raised some dust from the mound.

I swear that I could hear the air splitting as the ball went to the plate. I never saw the ball, and would fail to see it each time that I watched the young man pitch. It made a sort of ssssshump sound as it went to the plate, clearly audible where I sat, roughly 10 yards away. It actually hit the post that supported the backstop fence, making a noise not dissimilar to what a hammer would make if you hit a church bell with it. The sonorous ringing continued for about 5 seconds after the ball- violently- ricocheted away.

Everyone standing behind Tavares went crazy. Two of them had casts on their arms.

I had done some research. The fastest pitch ever thrown, according to the Guiness Book Of World Records, was the 100.9 mph heater that Nolan Ryan threw in 1974. I'd watched some of Ryan on YouTube... this kid was faster. Wayyyyyyyyyyy f*cking faster.

I needed proof. I turned to Tavares, who quickly realized that I was the only one who hadn't been looking at the gun.

"109 mph," he said. "Sweet Baby Jesus....."

"Wait till he warms up," said the coach.

THE COACH, THE COP, THE SCOUT, AND THE GIRL

Yogi Berra once described baseball as "50% hitting, 50% pitching... oh, and 50% fielding." The kids had lots of work to do in all areas of the game, and were soon off distractedly fielding grounders, playing pepper, taking batting practice from mortal pitchers, and whatever kids do when practicing baseball. I have no idea, because the 4 adults were talking about the future in the bleachers.

"How old is he?" I asked

"14," replied the coach

"My God in Heaven... he's still growing," said Tavares.

"I could get (Boston Red Sox general manager Theo) Epstein to sign him to a billion dollar deal based on what I just saw," said the scout.

"I'm afraid to pitch him in a real game," said the coach. "He could split some kid's wig with that steamer." The radar gun had recorded a top speed of 124 mph, and The Kid averaged roughly 117  mph during the 2 dozen pitches I watched him throw.

"I'm Bourne through and through," said Detective Tavares, "but pitching that kid is akin to letting your pit bull run wild. You may get sued over whatever damage he does."

"He's accurate," pointed out the coach. "I taped a dime to the plywood he was throwing at yesterday, after he crippled both of my catchers. He punched it through the board."

"I bet he could use the big league money," I said, thinking about some of my own friends who lost everything to Katrina.

"Damn straight," said Tavares. "Does he have any other pitches... maybe a curveball or a slider?"

"You know why tigers don't learn Kung Fu?" I asked the detective. "Because they don't need to."

There was a long period of silence, during which I debated using my feminine charms to endear myself to The Kid, maybe become his agent for a reasonable 10% of the nut. Entering the Show at 15 years old or so, he'd have a 20 year career at about, oh, $50 million a season. You can buy a lot of wine and cheese with an agent's cut of that scratch.

The scout broke the silence. "I'm calling Epstein tonight," he said, "but I'm really going to miss this game."

"Why?" None of us had caught on yet.

"There isn't a man alive who could see, catch up to, and put his bat on that pitch. To my knowledge, there has never been such a man. Baseball is entirely dependent on what George Plimpton once described as 'the delicate balance between pitcher and batter.' That's why they get so mad about the steroids... it alters the balance."

"I thought it was health reasons," I ventured.

"If they cared about the health of the players, the NFL would be playing touch football, and Don King would preside over a series of slap fights."

"For 150 years,you needed X amount of power to hit a home run. The parks were the same size (roughly) for Ty Cobb as they are for Barry Bonds. It's part of American culture, and is probably the only sport where a 1905 era guy could jump right into the modern game."

I nodded, thinking about that 270 pound kid from OSU who ran the 4.5 40. What havoc would he have brought if thrown in among the 150 pound guys of the early, segregated NFL?

"Baseball suddenly becomes a whole new game if there is a Man amongst Boys. I don't know where it will be headed, but I know that Ted Williams wouldn't recognize it."

RAINY DAY WOMAN MEETS THE BOY KING

Practice was cancelled today, because of the rain. While I wouldn't know Theo Epstein or Terry Francona if I were sitting in their laps, I could make a reasonable guess as to who was sitting in the Mercedes I saw parked on the other side of the field.

There's really no point to allowing this kid to play high school ball, and I'd even feel badly sending Cape league hitters up to face him.

No, a man must be well-compensated if he intends to face Death itself three times in nine innings.

I got out of my car, and scuffed around the infield for a while. I was never any good at baseball or softball. The ball is too small to see, as I like to tell people. I do a lot of that EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK stuff whenever someone throws (or even lobs) a ball towards me. My swinging of the bat is quite similar to that chopping motion you see Benihana chefs use, and I'm pretty sure that no one above Tee Ball competency swings the bat from Up to Down like I tend to do.

Even my dog looks disappointed when I play fetch with her... and if dogs could speak, mine would say something like "I'm not a puppy anymore... I need the ball to be thrown farther than 10 yards."

Lost in thought, I failed to notice The Kid as he approached me on the mound. Showing guile beyond his years, he grabbed mefrom behind suddenly. I screamed, then turned to face my attacker.... who smiled a boyish grin, and used a Louisiana drawl to say, "April Fools!"

April Fools, indeed.

Tags: baseball, Cape Cod, blogplugs, Sidd Finch, April Fools