Rocky Wattson barely had time to flinch as the fastball whizzed by him, barely an inch from his head at eye level.
The Chicago Black Sox second baseman backed out of the box as the Des Moines catcher, Ben Clark, fired the ball back to his pitcher.
“That was a little close, wasn’t it?” Wattson said to Clark as he adjusted his batting gloves and prepared to step back into the batter’s box.
Wattson and 'stache
Just moments before, Chicago first baseman Mark Simpson had given his team the lead with a line drive solo homer to left field off Des Moines starter Don Smith, and the stadium was still abuzz.
Wattson shrugged.
“Simpson’s just doin’ what Simpson does,” he said. “Smitty shouldn’t take it personal.”
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Clark said. “He hates everybody who steps into the box against him – especially guys who come up after someone homers off him.”
Wattson rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, Meat.”
He stared out at Smith, who glared back as he went into his windup and fired a sinker that seemed as if it had been aimed right at his knee. Wattson skipped back out of the way, in the nick of time.
Don Smith
“Damn it, Ben. Cut that shit out,” he barked at Smith.
Smith nonchalantly gloved the throw back from his catcher and smirked back at Wattson.
“Can’t take it, hot shot?” he answered back. “Maybe you better take that stupid mustache and go sit on the bench, huh?”
“Yeah, after I take you yard,” Wattson muttered as he stepped back into the batter’s box.
Smith, a tall, gangly 19-year-old, went into his windup and then let loose with a 93-mph fastball aimed just behind Wattson at shoulder height. Wattson responded instinctively, trying to duck back out of the way – a move that, instead, brought him squarely into the path of the ball.
It plunked him on the left biceps, just below the shoulder, and he gasped at the sudden, sharp pain of impact.
Wattson dropped his bat and clutched at his arm, rubbed it a couple of times, and looked out to see Smith grinning at him.
And he snapped.
Wattson threw his batting helmet to the ground and broke towards the mound, screaming obscenities at Smith the whole way.
The pitcher backpedaled off the mound as his infielders, to a man, dashed in to back him up. Wattson got there first, though, and took a wild swing that connected with nothing but air, before Kernels first baseman Willie Carter grabbed him from behind and tried to pin his arms to his side.
Willie Carter
“No can do, slugger,” Carter said with a laugh. “Can’t have you mussing up our bonus baby’s hair.”
Carter yanked Wattson backwards off the mound and, just as quickly as the brawl had gained intensity, it began to fizzle.
Black Sox Manager Bret Richards sidled up to Wattson with team trainer Wakie Mellouk in tow.
“You OK, Rock?” Richards asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Wattson said. “Nothing wrong with me that one more swing at that asshole wouldn’t cure.”
Richards laughed. “Well, I don’t think Mr. Carter here is gonna let that happen … you can let him go, Willie. We’ll keep Hulk Hogan here under wraps.”
Carter looked puzzled. “Hulk Hogan?”
Richards shook his head. “Before your time, I guess. Pro wrestler. Don’t worry about it.”
Carter let Wattson go, and jogged towards Smith as home plate umpire Mike Marshall approached.
Marshall pointed at Wattson and then over towards Smith and raised his voice so everyone could hear. “You and you. You’re both gone. Hit the showers.”
Richards rolled his eyes. “Now, c’mon, Mike. You saw what happened … Smith threw at my man Rocky here three times in a row.”
Diesel Dave
Richards positioned himself between Marshall and Wattson – just in case – and tried one more time. “Mike, you gotta be able to consider the circumstance here. Wattson was just sticking up for himself.”
Marshall shook his head. “Look, Bret – and Rocky – I sympathize, I really do, but my hands are tied. He charged the mound, that’s automatic. Go back to the clubhouse, put some ice on the arm and live to play another day, OK? Don’t make me throw anyone else out, OK?”
Hearing no argument, the umpire walked off to confront Smith and Des Moines Manager Troy Coffman.
With that, Richards turned to Wattson and Mellouk. “You heard the man. Wakie, take Rocky back and make sure he ices down that arm – he’s gonna have a helluva a bruise there.”
Mellouk nodded and took Wattson by the elbow and started to lead him off the diamond.
As they moved towards the visitors’ dugout, Mark Simpson and Diesel Dave, a catcher and the Black Sox captain, walked alongside.
“That was one hell of a mound charge there, Rock,” said Dave, suppressing a chuckle.
“Why? What was wrong with it?” Wattson asked.
“Well, I don’t know, but I don’t think the pitcher is supposed to have time to make a ham sandwich while he’s waiting for you to get there,” Simpson said with a laugh.
Wakie Mellouk
As Wattson and Mellouk started down the dugout steps, Dave called after them.
“And Rock – you gotta take care of yourself. We can’t have you putting your ‘stache at risk,” he said.
“What?” Wattson asked. “My mustache? What about the rest of me?”
“Nah,” Dave answered. “Second basemen are a dime a dozen, but that mustache is a national treasure.”
“Screw you, Diesel,” Wattson said with a laugh. “What do you think, Wakie?”
“I don’t know, Rock,” Mellouk said as the two entered the hallway that led to the clubhouse. “Seems to me Dave might have a point.”
Wattson looked pained.
“You, too, Doc?” he said. “Well, screw all y’all.”
“Uh huh,” Mellouk said. “Let’s get you back to the clubhouse and get some ice on that mustache.”
“You mean my arm, right?” Wattson said.
“No,” Mellouk said. “Not really.”
