The Longest Home Run in Sandlot Baseball

As a kid with pretty severe vision loss, I always tried to be just like the other kids. My last time playing baseball ended with what I still believe is the longest home run in sandlot history. I was about ten years old.

There was a field near an auto parts store that made the perfect spot for baseball. The owners of the store didn't mind us using it, and we took full advantage. Let me describe the field: from the sidewalk, there was about 25 feet of flat ground before a steep hill dropped about 10 feet. After that, the field gradually leveled out over 15 yards before flattening completely, this is where we set up our diamond.

We made do with whatever we could find for bases. Home plate was part of an old tractor-trailer brake pad from a nearby scrap yard about 20 feet behind it. First base was a piece of wood, and second and third bases were decent-sized rocks. Nothing fancy, but it worked.

On a good day, we'd have anywhere from 6 to 11 kids per team. Since I couldn't see too well, they usually stuck me way out in right field part of which was on that sloping grade.

During this particular game, there was a runner on second when the batter hit a solid grounder in my direction. It was a newer, white ball, and the grass had just been cut making it bright green, which gave the ball enough contrast for me to easily see it rolling towards me. All of the kids on my team were yelling for me to get the ball, I scooped it up quickly.

The runner from second was rounding third and heading home, and the batter had just turned first. Now, keep in mind, we had almost no equipment, just a few gloves, one bat, and the ball and no helmets. I wound up and threw it as hard as I could toward home plate, hoping to get the runner out.

What I didn't expect was that the batter would intersect with the ball. I'm still not sure if I hit him or he ran into it, but either way, the ball and his head made solid contact. He dropped instantly. Then he got up, and started charging towards me.

He was much bigger than I was, so I did the only logical thing: I ran. I sprinted up the grade, over the hill, across the parking lot, and right onto the sidewalk. I must have run 50 yards before crossing 12th Street, and went straight up Laurel Street hill. I crossed 10th, turned onto 9th, and kept going past Mine Street and then Race Street. I cut diagonally across 9th, ran up the next hill, and down the alley behind my house. I darted through my dad's carport, down the steps, and into the kitchen.

Safe at home.

I never played baseball again. Luckily, I managed to avoid John until he eventually forgot about "kicking the crap out of me.

Every time that I think about this story, I wonder how far did John chase me? I would not look back for several reasons. First I did not want to break my stride allowing him to catch me and secondly, I was focused on the ground in front since I did not want to trip.