Thank you, Uncle Bob | News, Sports, Jobs

Submitted photo Bill Hammond’s uncle Bob Foley and his wife, adorable aunt Agnes Schranz Foley, at the time.

My late uncle Bob learned that my brother and I were bullied as children and suggested a solution.

Brother Tom and I used crutches for over five years combined until we reached Little League age. We also had the same hip bone disease.

The crutches slowed us down and made us easy targets for verbal abuse, teasing, and ridicule. “Tag, it’s you.” and “Gotcha Last” has never been our go-to game.

His uncle Bob Foley served in the Korean War and was passionate about sharing his knowledge of martial arts in the 1950s.

Bob built a thriving construction business in the Rochester area and was also an excellent storyteller. He would often end his talk by saying something outrageous and then interrupting it with a chuckle. My ever-patient Aunt Aggie tried and failed not to laugh, instead giggling, rolling her eyes, and always adding, “You know what? “Oh, Bob.” Their love for each other was evident.

He convinced his mother, who hated conflict, that he could help her children. She made him promise that she would only teach him defense, not offense.

He offered to teach Tom and me how to protect ourselves. He preached that defense also wins ball games and fights.

He said bullies are always the first to attack and good defense is key to stopping bullying. He taught me that most fights don’t last long because the attacker usually runs out of energy quickly.

One afternoon he taught us the basics. You learned the best defensive posture to take when attacked and how to block kicks and especially punches effectively. We learned quickly.

He didn’t tell us how to attack, but he warned us about hitting people in the head. The head is unusually hard and the hands and fingers break easily. Good to know.

Instead, he targeted and identified some extremely vulnerable body parts and pressure points that were previously unknown to us. It’s painfully effective. literally.

This conversation about fighting reminds me of the second and last time I was ejected from a baseball game. Yes, there is a fight involved. There are actually two.

I was the playing manager for the First Ward Falcons team in the Grape Belt League in the early 1970s. I was also the GBL president, scheduler, and referee. It’s less work than I expected.

We were playing a rival team at DHS Field when I changed pitchers.

the great gerald passed away “Butch” Wallace took off his catcher’s gear and pitched, and I stepped down from first base and caught the ball. There was a runner on third base.

On the first pitch, the offensive team attempted a special squeeze, but the batter failed to make the crucial bunt. The runner on third base purposely left for home on the pitch. he was “Dead,” therefore, “suicide” part of the play.

He braked quite a bit and stopped in the middle of his at-bat.

I started pushing him back into third place, fully expecting to go down. Instead, he turned and charged straight at me. I remembered my defensive stance and prepared for the impact. The runner took off toward me, elbow-first and shoulder-first.

I grabbed the ball, aiming for an out, but the impact hit the catcher’s mask against his glasses, breaking them.

The shrapnel didn’t hit my eye, but it left a deep gash under my left eye that required six stitches to close.

I immediately told the referee: “That should be an ejection. He did it on purpose. Get him out of the game or I’ll…”

When a runner interrupted and called me the “P-word” to complain to the umpire, I headed straight for him.

He might have been taller, younger, faster, and bigger, but I knew something he didn’t. Thanks to Uncle Bob, I never lost a fight. Not one.

We were immediately separated by our teammates and sent off by the referee for fighting.

As I was giving first aid on the bench, the opposing coach approached me.

He deeply apologized to the players for their actions and also gave some good news. The player was no longer a member of the team and was already on his way to the parking lot. The vote was unanimous, so I asked him to express his gratitude to the team.

Longtime fan and future manager Rich Jessee offered to give me a ride to the hospital emergency room, and we headed to the parking lot.

Guess who I met when I walked back along the right field fence of the Babe Ruth League field? And he wasn’t happy. He had no team or friends. And it was all my fault.

I dropped my two gloves and spikes when he threatened loudly. “Next time you attack me, I’ll kill you!”

Hello Adrenaline! I grabbed him by the shirt with just my left hand, lifted him off the ground, and pinned him to the fence. His legs were dangling. My right hand slammed into his jaw repeatedly.

Rich finally pulled me away from him when the woman started screaming. Apparently some of his teeth were loose. my hand? I never felt better.

And I was never thrown out of the game again. I learned my lesson. In more ways than one. Thank you, Uncle Bob.

Bill Hammond is the former sports editor of the Evening Observer.