Fast Ball Pitch in the Bullpen, From the Archives

This post is published today to honor the memory of NY Yankee pitcher Don Larsen. Don Larsen died today at the age of 90, he is mentioned in this post, written a couple of years ago as a memory of a from my growing up years.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

     I enjoyed laying in the haymow, resting before evening chores and pondering the mysteries of the world and reliving the day’s events.  The fresh hay was warm and chewing on a stem of grass yielded a pleasant taste. I could lay here, and nobody would bother me as I let my mind wander over the events of the morning before getting to the mysteries of life.

As soon as the barn was cleaned following the morning’s milking I had hurried to the house to change out of my barn clothes. I gathered my willow fishing pole and a can for worms as raced out of the house and off the back porch. That was one of those mysteries. Every home I knew of used the back door to come and go, usually through the kitchen. If the front door was never used and the back door was the main door in life, why didn’t the back door become the front door and front door the back door?

     I ran to the manure pile at the corner of the barn. I was anxious to get to the creek before the sun was on the water. The fish would be biting better early in the morning. I drove the shovel into the ground at the edge of the manure pile and jumped on it a couple of times to drive it deeper into the earth. Then with both hands near the top of the handle, I pulled back with all my weight. After a brief resistance, the shovel flipped over a large scoop of dirt. It was loaded with worms.  Breaking the dirt apart, I filled the worm can quickly.  These worms were large and wiggled a lot.  They had that bright reddish color that the fish seemed to like.  This was going to be a good morning of fishing.

     The run to the creek was several hundred yards, but I covered it in no time. I practiced my moves that I learned watching Crazy Legs at the movie last year. I scrambled over the fence at the wooden section and ran down to the creek.  This first hole was the largest and the best. There was a 4-foot waterfall at the head of the hole. The water was deep under the waterfall. I fished from a rock shelf that ran the length of the hole on this side of the creek. These early summer days were great fishing. The flow was just starting to slow a little, and the water was crystal clear. 

     I put my stuff down and untangled the line on my willow pole. My hands were shaking in anticipation as I threaded a worm on to the hook. The free end of the worm wiggled a lot. I would break this portion off if the worm supply was low, but I liked to leave it on for the first couple of fish. The larger fish would tend the seek out this squirming worm. I dipped the worm in my vial of Cod Liver Oil. I was less than convinced that it made a difference but my Uncle Duke was sure that it did and Dad said that it couldn’t hurt.

     With everything ready, I lowered the worm into the water at the deepest end, just a foot from the foam from the waterfall.  Bam, there was a sharp tug on the line before the worm was halfway to the bottom. I struggled a little, and the willow pole bent with the tip touching the water. But then with the spring in the willow branch and my pull, the fish came flying out of the water. Such a nice fish, probably 14 inches long. I quickly dispatched him with my pocket knife, driving the blade into the back of his neck at the base of his skull.  He didn’t even damage the worm much.

The morning went quickly, I had 20 fish and had only fished 2 of the main holes. I gathered up my stuff and the willow fork of fish and headed back to the house. Mom would have lunch made, and after I cleaned the fish and finished lunch, I could head out to the barn until it was time to do evening chores.

      I cut the heads off the fish with Mom’s large butcher knife.  She was always quick to remind me not to cut a finger off.

     “David, you be careful with that knife,” she would say, “You could cut a finger off before you know what happened.”

     It was good for her to remind me I guess, but you would think she should know that I would remember her warning by now.

     Uncle Duke left the heads of his fish on and cooked them that way, but Mom said she didn’t want them looking at her from the frying pan.

     It didn’t take long, and the fish were cleaned and in the refrigerator. They would make a good dinner tonight, enough for everyone. Mom fried them after dipping them in egg and the flour. They came out golden brown and tasted great. There was nothing better than fresh trout unless it was really fresh trout, cooked over a campfire.

     I washed and sat down with Mom and my brother Gary for lunch. Baloney sandwich and a glass of milk. We ate quickly without a lot of conversation. Gary had not wanted to fish this morning. I bet he regretted that decision after seeing the mess of fish I brought home. Anyway, I finished lunch and headed to the barn.

    The fresh hay was warm and smelled sweet. I pulled a long straw from a bale and casually chewed on it as I laid back and tried to decide if I should take a nap or solve some the mysteries that seemed to bother me a lot these days.

I wonder why girls are so different from boys. I mean the farm girls are not bad, they can do stuff like ride horses and do barn chores. They even fish sometimes. But the town girls, they play jacks and do hopscotch, that’s about it. Last summer when two LA cousins visited and I took them on a hike around the hill, they complained most of the time. They were not impressed with the duck pond on top of the hill, and then when they had to scale down the face of the cliff on the back side of the hill, you would have thought the world had come to an end. I thought we were going to have to turn around and go back the way we came. I ended up taking them down the cliff, one at a time. Almost had to place their every step but we all got down okay. To hear them tell the story when we got back to the house, you would have thought we had climbed down into the Grand Canyon.

     And then, maybe the biggest mystery of all, how does this barn roof shed water without leaking a drop. Laying here I can see cracks between every shake. At night you can see stars through the roof. I asked Mom once, she had no idea how it worked but said that “All barns are made that way.”  When I talked to Grandpa about it, he just chuckled.

     “David, they have been building barns that way my entire life,” he said. “I guess there must be a draft the keeps the water out of the cracks.”

     Grandpas are pretty smart guys, if he couldn’t answer, I was at a loss of who to ask. Then Uncle Ern, Grandpa’s brother who had been listening to the conversation, came up with a reasonable answer.

     “David, the hay is warm, that makes the air inside the barn warmer than outside, the warm air rises and goes out the cracks in the roof, that keeps the water out,” he explained.

     Made sense, but how come the hay was warm? I guess some things in life just are too complex to explain. Answer one question, and it leads to another question.

     I must have drifted off to sleep for a time. When I woke with a start, I could hear the cows coming into the barn for the evening milking. I would have to hurry to change clothes or I would be late for my chores.

     I hurried to the house, passing Gary on the way. He had just brought in the cows and was now trying to practice hitting a baseball. Throwing the ball up in the air and swinging the bat at it when it came down. He actually hit it once in a while. 

     After changing into my barn clothes, I hurried out of the house toward the barn. Just then Gary connected with the ball for a good hit. The only thing wrong was the ball landed in the middle of the bullpen.

     Of all places for it to land. The only place on the entire farm that was strictly off limits was the bullpen. All bulls were dangerous just like all guns were loaded. We were never allowed to touch the bull and even bull calves were off limits. Get caught playing with a bull calf, and your name was Mudd for some time. I never did know why Mudd was such a bad name, but that was the way it was around our place. This particular bull in the bullpen now was a young Hereford bull. The main concern on the local farms was with Jersey bulls. The Jersey bulls had the reputation of being the meanest of all the bulls.

     “What are we going to do now,” Gary said, “we will never get that ball out of there.”

     “Just go in and get it,” I said, “this bull is not mean, and Dad will never know.”

     “Not me,” Gary said, “I am too scared to go into that bullpen. What would you do if he came after you?”

     The bullpen was made with a high fence, two rows of woven wire with barbed wire on top. It was a large square pen, about 100 feet on a side. Right now the bull was standing at the corner near the barn talking to a few of the cows. He wasn’t paying any attention to us or to the ball.

     “I’ll go get the ball for you,” I said to Gary.

     I climbed over the gate and looked at the bull when my feet hit the ground. The bull glanced at me briefly and then turned back to the cows. I walked to the center of the pen and picked up the baseball. Again, the bull glanced at me but did not move and returned his attention to the cows. I started back to the gate. As I walked I made one fatal mistake, I started throwing the ball in the air and catching it as it came down. This caught the bull’s attention. The second toss and bull turned and kicked up his heels. Here he came at a fast trot.

     I first turned to run but immediately realized that being in the middle of the pen, I had nowhere that I could run to and make a getaway before the bull would catch me. I stopped, turned and took my stance. I had watched Don Larsen pitch his perfect game on TV last fall when visiting Mom’s cousin, Margery, and Mid Johnson, in Smith River. I had been practicing my pitching ever since. I concentrated on the bull’s forehead.

     Things were in slow motion now. The bull was closing the ground between us at a rapid pace. I could see Gary coming across the gate with the baseball bat, and I could see Dad jumping off the end of the milk house platform, he would be really pissed. I concentrated on the bull’s forehead. I took my windup and threw the ball as hard as I could. I completed my follow through and immediately assumed an athletic stance, ready to move in any direction if the pitch missed its mark.

     The ball struck the bull squarely in the middle of his forehead. It bounced off hard. The bull stopped in his tracks, shook his head a little, turned and walked back to the cows at the edge of the pen. I quickly retrieved the ball and ran to the gate. Now my next obstacle was Dad. I think I would rather face down the bull.

     “You damn little Buck Fart,” he said as he reached out to bat the back of my head. “What do you think you are doing in the bullpen?”

     I ducked my head just at the right moment to avoid most of the blow to the back of my head. That was from years of practice. “Gary was afraid to get his ball, so I went in after it,” I replied.  “That bull is too young to be mean.”

     “You are just damn lucky. That bull could just as well knocked you down and mauled you to death by the time I got there to help,” Dad said.

     “I hit him with my best pitch,” I said.

     “Your best pitch, I haven’t seen you throw very many good pitches, you are just lucky it hit him.  Now you get your butt in the barn and get your chores done and give some thanks to the fact that you’re lucky to be alive,” Dad said. “You can daydream about you pitching while you work.”

     I tossed the baseball to Gary and went to the barn and grabbed the bucket of milk for the calves. I was thinking while I portioned the milk out into the calf buckets.

     Dad was just like all my teachers, he just thought I was lucky, but just maybe, I am good.

Photo by Damir Spanic on Unsplash


Monday, October 8, 1956, From the Archives

The sun was just breaking through the clouds as we turned off the highway onto the long gravel road to Margery’s house. It had been a long drive to Smith River, and it would be good to get out and stretch my legs.

Mom warned me about the long drive and said I would be the only kid here since it was a school day. Still, I begged to come along to the family gathering to celebrate Auntie Dee’s birthday. I was used to entertaining myself, so being the only kid didn’t worry me.

“Robert wanted me to make sure I got all the information about Mid’s new TV,” Aunt Lila said as Mom steered around the last corner. “He is determined to put an antenna on top of our hill and string the wire all the way to the house.”

“That sounds expensive,” Mom said. “How does he know it will work?”

“He had a guy come out, and he could pick up a station from Eugene at the top of our hill,” Aunt Lila said. “And yes, it is going to be expensive. but David probably knows, after our trip this summer, TV is pretty nice.”

“I don’t know. It just costs a lot of money,” I said from the back seat, remembering the TV sets in some of the motel rooms on the east coast that you had to put dimes or quarters in the box on the side of it to turn on the thing.

“Yes, that is right,” Aunt Lila said. “Ours won’t have a money box on it, but it still will cost a lot of money.”

We pulled into the driveway. There was a large two-story, white farmhouse on the left and a large barn on the right, located about fifty yards from the house. Sparse pasture land behind the barn faded into a series of low sand dunes. I could hear the waves when I opened the car door. The ocean was not far.

The house was packed, and all the women were in the kitchen when we came through the door. 

Auntie Dee hugged me.

“David, what are you doing here today?” she asked. “You should be in school.”

“When he heard we were celebrating your birthday, he begged to come,” Mom said. “I couldn’t refuse.”

With that said, the chatter in the kitchen started, and I headed to the living room, where all the men were in front of the TV set.

“You better watch this, David,” Uncle Rodney said. “The guy pitching is named Larsen, and he might be a cousin of yours.”

“I don’t have any Larsen cousins,” I said. 

“You never know,” Uncle Rodney said. “Your dad doesn’t know that side of his family. Besides, this is the World Series.”

I didn’t know anything about baseball. I had heard about the World Series, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I found a seat and watched for a few minutes.

“You are going to get into trouble for missing school,” Uncle Duke said.

“Mom will write a note and say that I was ill,” I said.

“What does ill mean?” Uncle Rodney asked. “You don’t look very sick to me.”

“That’s what she writes when I stay home to go fishing,” I said. “I don’t need to go to school all the time. I learn faster than the other kids.”

“You skip school to go fishing?” Mid asked.

“I learn a lot when I am fishing,” I said.

“I bet you do,” Mid said. “You keep it up. I like to see a kid who likes to fish.”

I found a seat and watched the game for a couple of minutes. It was really boring. I headed to the barn.

I loved old barns. Every one of them was different but alike in so many ways. Margery, Auntie Dee’s daughter, and Mid had lived here a long time. This barn still had stalls for the workhorses, and they probably hadn’t used horses in the fields since the war.

The harnesses were still hung by the stalls, and unlike Grandpa’s harnesses, these were still soft and well-oiled. They smelled like good leather. 

I looked through the barn and ran a few chickens out of the mangers. I gathered as many eggs as I could hold in the front of my tee shirt and headed to the kitchen.

“Oh, thank you, David,” Margery said when I came through the door with a shirt full of fresh eggs. “I didn’t have time to gather any eggs this morning. You are such a great help.”

Margery unloaded the eggs, and I returned to the barn. After another trip through the barn, I headed out over the sand dune toward the ocean. By the time I got to the top of the hill, I could see the ocean.

“This would be a great place to watch for Russian submarines,” I said as I found a tuff of grass to sit on for a time. After ten or fifteen minutes, I decided that no submarines were nearby, so I returned to the house.

“What have you been up to?” Uncle Rodney asked as I was looking for a place to sit.

“I gathered some eggs from the mangers and looked through the barn,” I said. “Then I walked out to the ocean and watched for Russian submarines for a time.”

“Russian submarines, did you see any?” Uncle Duke asked.

“No, but this would be a good place for them to land,” I said. “There is nobody around to see them for a long way in each direction.”

“You better give up watching for those submarines and watch the end of this ball game,” Mid said. “Your cousin is about ready to pitch a perfect game.”

We all sat and watched the game come to an end. A guy named Yogi ran out and jumped up on the pitcher at the end of the game.

Don Larsen had just pitched a perfect game in game five of the 1956 World Series. The New York Yankees had beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in that game, and they would go on to win the World Series that year. And this was the first sporting event that I ever watched on TV.

Willow, From the Archives

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

 I could see Willow sitting in the reception area. As always, she was aloft to all that was happening around her. Willow was a natural hunting dog, a Drahthear, a German wirehaired pointer. She was getting older now and had mellowed with age. She was very self-confident, like all the larger dogs who had a mission in life.

Today she was holding up her right front foot, which must be why she was here. I stepped out to the reception door and motioned Howard to come on back. I took him to the treatment room, bypassing the backlog and the reception desk. Willow followed on three legs.

“Thanks, Doc,” Howard said. “I thought we would be hung up there for an hour, and Willow here has a pretty sore foot.”

“I could see her hold it up,” I said. “What has she done to it?”

“I don’t rightly know, Doc,” Howard said. “She has been gone for a couple of days and just came home this afternoon carrying that foot.”

“A couple of days sounds like a long time, Howard,” I said. “Were you looking for her?”

“No, that is not unusual for her,” Howard said. “I someone is going to take her hunting, she just goes herself.”

I lifted Willow onto the treatment table and laid her down on her left side. I grabbed her sore foot, and Willow just sort of looked away. She was either trusting me or maybe just resigned to her fate.

Looking at the foot, there was a significant wound on the top and bottom of her two central toes. I could see some bone exposed. I leaned down and took a whiff. 

“Wow! This is a rotten wound,” I said. “It looks like Willow was caught in a foothold trap.”

“I was wondering about that,” Howard said. “But how would she have gotten loose?”

“Anyone setting traps is supposed to check them every 24 hours,” I said. “It is likely she was released by the trapper.”

“What do you think is going to happen to her foot?” Howard asked.

“I think she will lose at one of these two toes,” I said. “It is going to take a few days before we will know for sure. I think we will clean this wound and put it in a wrap for a few days. We will have Willow on some antibiotics, but we are going to allow nature to decide what stays and what goes.”

“You mean you are going to let these toes rot off?” Howard asked with a bit of concern in his voice.

“No, not rot off, but we are going to give enough time for nature to show us what would rot off if we did nothing,” I said. “If I take this foot to surgery today, I will be making decisions about what tissue stays and what tissue goes based on several factors. If we wait a couple of days, it will be obvious what tissue is alive and what is dead. Then, when I go to surgery, I can easily save as much tissue as possible. Either way, Willow will lose one or two toes, but when everything is healed, it won’t slow her down much.”

“Okay, that makes me feel better,” Howard said. “What do we do now?”

“Let’s leave her for a few hours,” I said. “I will sedate her, get this wound cleaned up, and trim some obviously dead tissue. Then we will send her home with a wrap on that foot and with antibiotics. We will schedule her for surgery on Friday. At that time, I will do the final removal of all dead tissue and probably a toe or toe. We will keep this foot wrapped for a couple of weeks.”

We put Willow in a kennel and took care of the backup in the reception area. As soon as I could squeeze in a few minutes, we sedated Willow and started cleaning the wound. 

The main thing about cleaning an animal’s wounds is getting all the hair away from the injury. On this foot, that was a challenge. The new clippers do a pretty good job, but I  found that using a straight-edge razor was necessary.

When I removed the hair and some of the rotten tissue, it was obvious that the timeline I discussed with Howard was not going to be necessary. There was no way I could save either one of the two central toes.

“Ruth, would you have Sandy call Howard and tell him that I am going to remove these two toes today,” I said. “Tell him the toes are beyond saving, and removing them now will speed up the healing process and be more comfortable for Willow.”

While Ruth was gone for a few minutes, I finished removing a few bits of dead tissue from the wound.

“Sandy can’t get Howard on the phone,” Ruth said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I will go ahead and take the toes,” I said. “Howard will understand. We will still put a wrap on this foot and bring Willow back on Friday and see if we can do a delayed closure. Willow will be better off this way.”

I removed the two central toes, digits III and IV, by disarticulating their joints with the metacarpal bones. There was no bleeding. I packed the wound with nitrofurantoin ointment and placed a well-padded wrap on the foot. I gave a large dose of cephalosporin by intramuscular injection. Then we moved Willow to a kennel for recovery.

Willow was bouncing around the kennel when Howard returned later in the afternoon.

“She looks a lot better,” Howard said as we let Willow out of the kennel.

“Yes, this wound cleaned up pretty well,” I said. “I did go ahead and remove those two middle toes. There was no saving them, and this foot will be more comfortable for Willow without them. We will still need to bring her back on Friday. I will do a final wound cleaning and remove any dead tissue. I think there will be ample skin surviving, so I can do a complete closure on this wound.” 

***

Willow came through the clinic door on Friday morning with a smile on her face. There were a few dogs, not many, who seemed to be able to equate a clinic visit with their feeling better. Willow was one of those few. She was walking on the wrapped foot, almost normally.

We sedated Willow and removed the wrap from her foot. The wound looked great. I had to trim very little tissue, and I removed the skin edge to make a fresh edge to suture. 

The wound closed up better than I expected. I did go ahead and applied a light wrap to the foot. I figured Howard would be unable to keep Willow in the house through the healing process.

“You need to bring Willow in on Wednesday next week, and we will change the wrap,” I said when Howard came to pick her up. “And one thing I forgot to mention, I have to report this wound to the Dean of the Vet School at Oregon State. It’s a new state law. I doubt they do anything with the information, but just so you know if they give you a call someday.”

“Are you just trying to run up the bill, Doc, or does she really need the wrap?” Howard asked.

“Howard, you should know by now that I don’t charge for surgical follow-ups,” I said. “If you could keep her in the house for the entire healing process, we could probably get by without a wrap. This wound closed up pretty well. But, the wrap is just insurance. This wound will heal much nicer if the sutures hold, and the wrap helps that happen.”

“I was just pulling your leg a little, Doc,” Howard said as he and Willow headed out the door.

I watched as Willow followed behind Howard. She was walking on the wrapped foot. I could see a slight limp, but I’m not sure that Howard’s neighbor would be able to notice the limp.

***

Willow’s foot healed, and she walked normally on that foot. It probably did slow her down a bit when she was hunting and working hard, but she let anyone know.

The one thing that changed with her was summed up by Howard on a visit a year or two later.

“The one thing I have noticed, Doc,” Howard said. “Willow stays pretty close to home these days. She has given up on those hunting trips by herself.”

If only people could learn from experience like a good hunting dog.

Image by EM80 from Pixabay