Handball Champ of the Neighborhood

My biggest sports moment is all wrapped up with adolescent puppy love. I was 12 that summer, and the baby-boomer generation had exploded, kids playing in the streets everywhere. On Meridian Street, we spent the summer playing handball on the corner.

I was one of the kids who was always picked last, but I accepted it because I was a girl and Gloria Steinem was not part of my reality yet. The handball champ of the neighborhood, and my adolescent heartthrob, was 14-year-old Bobby Grant. Of course, Bobby wanted nothing to do with the four-eyed, pimple faced 8th grader who mooned after him and prayed he'd catch her when they played kissing manhunt. But he tolerated my presence when he wasn't razzing me and calling me four-eyes or pimple face, and any attention at all from him was eaten up pathetically.

It was the ninth inning on a hot July afternoon, tie score, bases loaded and Bobby was up. I was in the outfield (so I wouldn't get in the real fielders way). "Sink out!" the pitcher yelled, as Billy and Georgie elbowed their way past me, ordering me to the infield. Bobby was tossed the pimple ball (yeah, I'm aware of the irony), held it out in his left hand, sighted, and swung with his right. But it wasn't one of his signature homerun blasts that traveled half a block, it was a pop fly. And it was coming right down at me! I could hear the outfielders yelling "Get out of the way!" as they rushed in to save the day, but I just stood there looking straight up -- and caught that pop fly! I caught a Bobby Grant pop fly! I saved the game. And I saved it by catching a Bobby Grant pop fly! For one bright shining moment, I was the handball champ of the neighborhood.

"Great catch, Patti," Bobby yelled.

I could have died happy right then.

Epilog: Bobby and I didn't live happily ever after. The next day he was calling me four-eyes again. Eight years later, I was a hot young divorcee with contact lenses and clear skin. One night he came calling, got me drunk and I foolishly confided an indiscretion that he promptly spread all over the neighborhood, ruining what was left of my reputation.

Bobby's in jail now. In his 50s, he got mixed up with a drug addict who murdered her husband. He claims innocence, although he was present. I guess Bobby still is the handball champ of the neighborhood.