(Ran originally Sunday 3-17-2019 in The Times and The News-Star)

Today is March 17, but no luck of the Irish for me. Sometimes, we lesser-thans find ourselves with no exit strategy.

You plead mercy of the court and soldier on.

In a nutshell, today’s effort is an illustration about the pure joy of trying, even if it means that odds are strongly tilted in the early-going for you to look more silly than an alpaca in a Speedo.

(This is me, raising my hand.)

No, it wasn’t the biggest sports broadcasting blunder of all time. It wasn’t Clem “The Voice of American Sports” McCarthy, a household name because of his radio work in the pre-TV era, miss-calling Jet Pilot as the winner of the 1947 Preakness over Faultless when the crowd blocked him as the horses were coming out of the final turn and had, during the two seconds he couldn’t see them, switched places.

What am I talking about? Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ve mixed my horses, and I’ve given you the winner as Jet Pilot and it’s Faultless.”

Guys who call horse races are magicians so McCarthy gets a pass in this bureau.

And my goof wasn’t Joe Buck mistakenly identifying on television the girlfriend of 2017 U.S. Open winner Brooks Koepka; Buck was one girlfriend behind.

Oops.

We’re hardly in the same league — and not nearly as funny — as Shaq falling off the “stage” and out of his chair last year during a live broadcast of NBA on TNT.

But we’re still a strike-out victim.

Because Louisiana Tech’s basketball and baseball seasons have overlapped here in late winter, I’ve had the opportunity to pinch-hit for Tech’s Hall of Fame broadcaster, Dave Nitz, doing what passes for play-by-play for some baseball games until he finishes basketball season. Dave has broadcast 44 seasons of Tech Baseball, which makes him the longest tenured dude in the college game. In college football he’s third or fourth.

But sure, I’ll follow The Legend. I know baseball. And it all seemed easy enough — until the pregame show came on, a guy came to bat, and the first actual game started.

That first game I “broadcast” was unlistenable. When do we take a station break? Who’s the Southeastern centerfielder? When do I talk about Ruston Brick, and who’s warming up in the Tech bullpen?

I was lost as the Israelites in the desert.

But after one game, you’ve got the logistics figured out. Now you are free to just call baseball. But that, too, can be tricky. Case in point:

Tuesday night, Tech — the Bulldogs are locked in mortal combat with Southern Miss in Ruston this weekend if you want to cruise over or listen on radio — pushed its record to 11-5 with a 7-0 win over Sam Houston State. Had it not been for how one play turned out in the bottom of the sixth in a scoreless game, the two teams might still be playing. Of course, I butchered the call of The Big Play like Grant butchered Richmond.

Tech’s Parker Bates was on second, Mason Mallard on first, no outs. Their teammate Seth White hits a ball over the right fielder’s head. When the throw comes in, Bates and Mallard are both within 10 feet of third. Oops. Bates had been forced to see if the fly ball would be caught; Mallard had a better view and started running earlier.

But the throw is quickly in so now Bates can’t score. He goes back to third. Mallard has to go back to second. Sam Houston State tries to throw to second to get him, but a Bearkat cuts the ball and throws home to try to get Bates, who goes home on the throw to second. Bates is safe, Mallard alertly goes to third and White ends up at second. 1-0 Tech.

It’s a lot of stuff. Here’s what I said:

 

“Swung on and hit in the air deep to right. Can the fielder get there?…He can’t!, and that should score a run. Here’s the throw to the cutoff man and … trouble at third base … throw to second … now a throw home. Where am I? MOMMY!? Mom…? Help? A stitch in time saves nine. And Bates scores and the Bulldogs have taken a 1-0 lead.” 

No one listening, including me, had any idea what had just happened.

I quickly mopped up and explained, sort of using English. What I should have said was this: “Swung on, fly ball, right field and into the corner for what might be extra bases! ’Dogs should take the lead! But wait, trouble at third, too many runners; the lead runner Bates is holding at third, Mallard will try to get back to second, the throw goes there and it’s cut and now they’ll throw home to get Bates and, too late!, he’s in there on a head-first slide and Tech leads 1-0 while Mallard advances to third and White to second. I feel like I’ve just been to the circus…”

Something like that. Anything but what I’d originally said, which sounded sort of like a mute man hyperventilating.

Like in real life, a game or the world doesn’t stop to let you catch up. But the only way to advance is to keep trying, studying, preparing, learning, and then doing. Get a bat and go find the plate. Even if you fail, you’ve tried. Think of the nobility a guy like Arnold Palmer brought to losing: hacking from this trap or from behind that tree, sweating, shirt tail out, but his eyes hopeful, his gaze ahead, and moving on. Do that.

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