Before the concept of getting in touch with a feminine side, or for that matter the concept of a man having a feminine side was introduced to the world, a young man or teenager as the case may be was often considered genetically imbalanced if he showed interest in the arts. Certain musicians like guitarists, drummers and saxophonists might escape ridicule. But playing a violin, French horn or flute fueled the fire of homophobic teenagers and their unenlightened parents even if said musician’s sole interest was in watching the blonde with the lacy brassiere that showed through her thin white blouse pucker her lips over her mouthpiece hoping she would want to press them against his after rehearsal.
Choir boys, even those with deep bass voices, endured silent questioning about what went on under their robes, while actors were considered to bear no weight when walking in loafers whether or not they put pennies in them. One of the ironic twists was the perception of Rock Hudson as the kind of man many of these supposedly well-meaning parents would be proud to have their son be.
Amazingly, more than forty years before the show became an instant phenomenon on television the Glee factor was hard at work on yours truly. For those unfamiliar with this latest spin on Bye, Bye Birdie with a little Grease thrown in, the singing, or Glee, club of a fictional high school gains credibility and popularity when the quarterback and star receiver of the football team discover their love for all things musical and join the club.
So, even before making my misguided decision not to try out for the school play, I had determined to mount a counter attack to the notion my chromosomes may be out of whack. Needless to say, unaware of my own homophobic proclivity it never occurred to me to ignore such an absurd assessment, nor the impact my actions might have upon my male friends who were just becoming aware of their sexual desire for something other than the aforementioned stereotype. Nonetheless, as noted in the previous story about my attendance at numerous games during the Braves final season at Milwaukee County Stadium, the urge to play high school baseball had emerged.
Although there was the one great season of softball at Grantosa Elementary, I never participated in little league and only played one season as an outfielder in a Babe Ruth league. Knowing a number of players from last year’s freshman team were moving directly to the varsity team I thought I had a shot at making the sophomore team. When word spread that Coach Hytinen had selected a starting sophomore lineup but was looking for pitchers, I quickly ditched my bat and started throwing as hard as I could.
Noticing a number of boys who brought tennis balls to school to work on their grip I scavengered the garage and basement to find the tool I was convinced would make me a star hurler. I had learned the importance of a batting stance and using hips and legs to drive the bat through the ball when hitting, but a transfer of such kinesthetic principles to pitching never occurred, at least not prior to tryouts.
So, after throwing as hard as I could, developing a completely sore arm, and achieving a fairly high degree of accuracy, my velocity fell far short of those who knew how to get their hips and legs into the delivery of the horsehide wrapped sphere. Trying to save face I told friends it was the snow forcing us inside to throw on the flat gym floor that curtailed my speed even though I knew I had never practiced throwing from a mound. Well, I would just have more time to concentrate on my studies, at least until football season.
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