One spring, I forgot to remind my parents to sign me up for summer little league. A number of kids, for whatever reason, missed the deadline. Jimmy Elan, a college-aged guy who lived down the road from us, decided to do something about this. He made calls to the parents, offered to form a team. He planned a presentation to the league office.

Jimmy believed his case would be stronger if we could say we already had a sponsor in place. My father was a liquor salesman with accounts all over Northern Kentucky. Though he felt Jimmy was a worthless do-gooder, he was able to get the owner of Al’s Cottage to pony up. But he couldn’t get Al into paying for full uniforms like other teams had. Trucks and Trailers wore white with blue pinstripes; Pike 27 Auto had gray with strawberry trim. Our team wound up with orange T-shirts that had black letters; our caps were plain black.

Drew and Davey Henderson’s father was so thrilled that he bought them baseball pants, cleats and gloves and when they arrived at our first practice. I guess all of us tried to appreciate how they looked. During a drill where Drew was a baserunner caught in a pickle, he leapt spikes-first at the second baseman, who happened to be his brother. The results were two deep puncture wounds above Davey’s knee and two streams of bright blood cascading down his new baseball pants. Both brothers wound up sobbing hysterically. When Drew was finally able to speak, he said that was how Frank Robinson did it. Jimmy didn’t even know who that was. With Drew and Davey sidelined, we spent the rest of that practice working on our slides—sneakers aimed for the base—and went home happy, covered in ball-diamond dirt.

For two straight months, we played games on Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings and we lost all of them. Kwik Shoppe in their weird head-to-toe aqua uniforms, scored 20 runs on us in one inning. I was brought in to relieve our starter, Jerry Musgrove, who’d simply walked off the mound, went to his bicycle behind the dugout and pedaled away. Bases loaded, no outs. I threw a lollipop curve, and the kid smacked a grounder right at me. Fielding it cleanly startled me, and my throw to first base sailed into right field. The bases emptied.

Our final game against Trapp’s Sunoco turned out to be the lone victory of the season. Only five of their players showed, so we took it on a forfeit. Jimmy pitched batting practice for half an hour, and the all the Al’s Cottage players gathered at the pitching mound and tossed our gloves in the air in celebration. My mother, who attended all of the games, stood and clapped.

It was Jimmy who came up with the idea that we ought to all caravan to Al’s Cottage and thank the owner for his sponsorship. My mother was hesitant, my father’s route was in Newport, a dicey town along the river. Jimmy said we’d stay for ten minutes, present the game ball to the owner, and this might even grease the skids for next year. Maybe we’d get full uniforms, including stirrup socks.

Jimmy wanted to make an impression on my mother, that had been clear all along.

She led the way in our old Matador station wagon, with me in the front seat. A pile of kids rode with us, and Jimmy stuck close behind. Once we made it to Newport, my mother had to crawl up and down streets of bars, liquor stores, greasy spoons, adult theaters. We spotted a Schlitz logo: Al’s Cottage. In the front room, they had a little restaurant with plastic tablecloths and glass ashtrays. Jimmy, truly excited, stepped past my mother and went up the hostess, said he was the manager of the team. The few patrons were beaming at us because of our t-shirts. “Uh, Al’s in the back,” she said, gesturing, amused by his earnestness.

There went Jimmy, a few boys streaming behind him. The hostess gave my mother a smirk. A short hallway with doorways marked ‘X’ and ‘O.’ Music playing, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” A back room with a stage at the far end. A few guys standing around, applauding, cigars stuck in their faces. Three women, wearing glittery bikinis, curtsying. One of them was the first to notice us.

One of the men who turned in our direction was my father. They each froze when he saw my mother at the back of the room.

Al said, “This is my baseball team? This my baseball team!” He was clearly three sheets to the wind. A big, heavy, sweating man who kept wiping his forehead. He gestured for the ladies to go to a table where robes were piled. Without mentioning the forfeit, Jimmy explained we’d had our first victory today. The lady with fire-red curls brought Drew and Davy close, her sleeves like wings. I caught the back of my father’s shirt heading for a side door. Al had the players gather around him and announced that we were “Champions of the Commonwealth.”

The men and women in the room cheered, and we raised our caps in appreciation. The women were dazzling and as they surrounded us, we turned devastatingly shy and humble. Overall, the team was extremely pleased. Al wanted to treat the players to popcorn and sodas; belatedly, Jimmy said it was time for us to get going.

Our victory meal turned out to be at a Dairy Barn along Route 8. It was as happy as we’d been all season. Cheeseburgers, shakes, talk of next year, what we needed to work on to get better. By this time, Jimmy had turned sheepish; he knew my father and had spotted him by the stage. Jimmy could tell my mother was frosted; after all, going to the Cottage had been his idea. This even though we’d only won on a forfeit. She waved for him to stop when it looked like he started to explain himself.

That evening, we had dinner, my mother, father and me. My father reminded us that we’d been fortunate to get T-shirts and caps from Al in the first place. Al had invited him to a birthday celebration. My mother said she didn’t see any cake there. Newport, he said. To get along, you play along. You already know that. The do-gooder looked like he was about to dampen his diapers. By the end of dinner, my mother and I were even giggling at one of his ridiculous stories. Then, she rubbed her forehead and when he saw that he said he was sorry. That was the way it was with them.

The room got quiet and he noticed me sitting there, still in my Al’s Cottage shirt. “You liked those ladies, didn’t you?” he said. I thought my mother might tell him to lay off, but she seemed curious.  The women at Al’s were too much for me; when the blonde brought her face close to mine to say Congratulations, pumpkin in her musky voice, I almost passed out. When I didn’t say anything, my father reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re a good kid,” he said.

To this, I could only offer, “Thanks, dad.”

The forfeit victory would mark the end of the Al’s Cottage team. Perhaps too many of the players’ parents heard the story about the visit to Al’s Cottage, or, more likely, those parents didn’t want their kids playing for a 1-16 team again. Who wanted to get used to losing like that. I was signed up on time the following season. Jimmy Elan spent his summer unloading semis at some pet food warehouse in Cold Springs.

I wound up playing for Kwik Shoppe, so I, too, donned the head-to-toe aqua uniform. This was a terrific team, and I grew used to winning. Though I rarely played, I took good care of that uniform. I felt more like an athlete. After a game where we destroyed Trapp’s, I caught a ride home with the catcher Marty Terhar and his brother; Marty and I thought it would be cool to wear our uniforms and caps in the Kwik Shoppe, which was right off Route 27. We thought the cashier might notice and offer us free slushies or magazines. However, the ash-haired guy behind the register only stirred to ring up our purchases and collect our nickels and dimes.

***

Andrew Plattner lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and teaches literature courses at Kennesaw State University. While this story is fiction, many moons back Andrew did play for a little league team named Al’s Cottage, which disbanded after one summer.