Submitted Photo
Bill Hammond’s uncle, Bob Foley, and his wife, the lovely Aunt Agnes Schrantz Foley, back in the day.
When my late Uncle Bob learned my brother and I were being bullied growing up, he offered a solution.
Brother Tom and I used crutches for a combined 5-plus years before we reached Little League age. We had the same hip bone disease.
The crutches made us slow afoot, turning us into easy targets for verbal abuse, teasing and ridicule. “Tag, You’re It” and “Gotcha Last” were not our go-to games.
Uncle Bob Foley had served in the Korean War and was eager to share his knowledge on the martial arts of the 1950s.
Bob built a thriving construction business in the Rochester area and was a great storyteller. He would often end those stories by saying something outrageous and punctuate it with his cackling laugh. My ever-patient Aunt Aggie would try not to laugh but fail, instead giggling, rolling her eyes and invariably adding, “Oh, Bob.” Their love for each other was palpable.
He convinced my mother, who detested fighting, that he could help her kids. She made him promise he would only teach defense, not offense.
He offered to instruct Tom and I how to defend ourselves. Defense wins ball games and fights, too, he preached.
He said bullies always attack first and a good defense was key to stopping them. He taught us most fights don’t last long because attackers usually run out of energy quickly.
In one afternoon he taught us the basics. We learned the best defensive stance to take when attacked and how to effectively block kicks and especially punches. We learned quickly.
While he didn’t teach us how to attack, he warned us about punching to the head. Heads are unusually hard and hands and fingers break easily. Good to know.
Instead, he identified several previously unknown to us, and the highly vulnerable, body parts and pressure points to target. Painfully effective. Literally.
All this talk about fighting brings me to the second and final time I was ejected from a baseball game. Yes, there’s a fight involved. Two, actually.
I was the playing manager of the Grape Belt League’s First Ward Falcons team in the early 1970s. I was also GBL president, schedule maker and umpire assignor. Less work than it sounds.
We were playing a rival team on the DHS field when I made a pitching change.
The late great Gerald “Butch” Wallace took off his catcher’s gear to pitch and I came down from first base to catch. There was a runner on third base.
On the first pitch, the offense tried a suicide squeeze, but the batter missed the all-important bunt. The runner from third, by design, took off for home on the pitch. He was “dead,” hence the “suicide” part of the play.
He put on some serious brakes and stopped halfway to the plate.
I started to push him back to third, fully expecting a rundown. Instead, he turned and charged straight toward me. I remembered my defensive stance and braced for impact. The runner launched himself at me, elbow and shoulder first.
I held onto the ball for the out, but the impact drove my catcher’s mask into my glasses, which shattered.
The pieces missed my eyes but scarred me with a deep gash under my left eye that needed six stitches to close.
I immediately told the umpire, “That should be an ejection. He did that on purpose. Throw him out of the game, or I’m gonna …”
When the runner interrupted to call me the P word for complaining to the umpire, I went right at him.
He may have been taller, younger, quicker and in better shape, but I knew something he didn’t. Thanks in no small part to my Uncle Bob, I had never lost a fight. Not one.
We were quickly separated by our teammates and ejected by the umpire for fighting.
While getting some first aid on the bench, the opposing manager approached.
He apologized profusely for his player’s behavior and had good news. The player was no longer a member of the team and was already on his way to the parking lot. The vote was unanimous so I asked him to convey my thanks to his team.
Longtime fan and future manager Rich Jesse offered to drive me to the hospital emergency room and we headed toward the parking lot.
Guess who we met walking back along the Babe Ruth League field’s right field fence? And he wasn’t happy. He had no team and no friends. And it was all my fault.
I dropped my two gloves and spikes when he loudly threatened, “Next time you try to come at me, I’ll kill you!”
Hello, adrenaline! With only my left hand I lifted him off the ground by his shirt and pinned him to the fence. His feet were dangling. My right hand slammed into his jaw again and again.
Rich finally pulled me off him when a woman started to scream. Apparently some teeth were loosened. My hand? Never felt better.
And I was never thrown out of a game ever again. I had learned my lesson. In more ways than one. Thanks, Uncle Bob.
Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER Sports Editor.