GEORGE VECSEY | When I was twelve, I went to junior high school in a busy section of Rego Park in Queens, part of New York City. We rarely played baseball, but we played softball on a concrete field with apartment buildings all around.

The school held its annual tournament and we were matched against a class a year older. Their pitcher was a giant named Lefty, who played on the basketball team. They were beating us by four runs going into the bottom of the last inning.

Then we rallied, loading the bases with two outs. The three runners are now a doctor, a lawyer, and a dentist, I think. I was the batter. It was all up to me.

I was heavy back then. Let's be honest. I was fat.

All that weight came in handy as I drove the ball between the left fielder and center fielder, and sent it clanging off the metal school-yard fence. The runners scored and I lumbered into third, where I wisely pulled up.

Now we were one base away from tying the score. I had never been in this position before, leading off third with the tying run. I took a step. Then I took another step. And -- bingo -- the catcher ripped a quick throw to the third baseman and picked me off. My bulky body never moved. The game was over.

I can still remember my sense of shame as I trudged off the field. My friends were great about it. On the six-block walk to the subway station, they all assured me the score would not have been close were it not for my tripole. The pickoff stayed with me for the rest of the school year and beyond. What made me mad was that Ihad not even been thinking about the catcher. All I could see was the short distance home.

I'd like to say that mistake made me a better ballplayer, but maybe it made me a little humble. Now, when a player let s a ball go through his legs or strikes out with men on base, I remember the feel of the third baseman taggin me between my shoulder blades. Sure, these guys are highly paid professionals, but I try to remember to be kind.

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