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The All Star
June 13, 1974. On this particular day I was in quite a hurry. It was a very special day for me. It was the day kids got together over at the old ballpark behind Maxwell Junior High for the opening day game of little league baseball. For some families it’s just another baseball season, but in my family it’s different; baseball is more of a religion you might say.
I dashed out the door, almost before my Mom had a chance to remind me to grab my glove. When I got outside I noticed the sky was dark and foggy, like that of a swamp. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” I thought to myself. I quickly ran into the backyard to get my bike out of the old shed, then rode off to the ballpark.
As I got there I saw Coach Wikley standing out on the field talking with the other team’s head coach. They just stood there talking for about five minutes. There was dead silence, as all the players peered over the dugout railing, curious about what was going on. Finally Coach Wikley came off the field. “Well, it looks like we’re going to play,” he said in his very deep voice. I never really liked coach Wikley; he was very cruel and harsh. He had dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. He was very tall and had a long beard down his neck.
The game was against the Rockford Red Rockets, not the best team in the league but not the worst either. Jimmy Fox, was to lead off for us. He was a speedy shortstop, without a lot of power but was one of the most dangerous guys to have on base. He led off, taking a strike right down the middle, followed by another strike high and inside, and a third strike, a fastball high in the zone. I was up next. The crowd cheered as the announcer roared “Now batting for the Crows, number 13, Billy Ramma.” By this time it had begun to rain hard. You could barely see the pitcher, the sun was covered in a smooth grey sheet of clouds, and you began to hear quiet and distant thunder. The ball was thrown, I swung with all my might, and at that second something amazing happened to me, something I would never forget. The bat was struck by lightning, as I fell to the ground.
The next time I woke up was three weeks later, in St. Marks hospital, I was weak. I could barely feel my arms. I felt cold, as if my blood was turning into a smooth sheet of ice. A doctor then came into the room looking very surprised. He looked at me for a few seconds, smiled, and said “Good to see you awake, son.” Then he walked over to the side of my bed without saying a word, picked up the phone, and said “Tell Mr. and Mrs. Ramma their son is awake. Now this puzzled me. I didn’t know how long I was out or what happened to me, but I sure would like to get some answers.
My parents ran into the room. Mom dashed over to the bed as if she hadn’t seen me in years.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You’ve been out for three weeks. The doctor says you were struck by lightning,” said my Dad.
“Will I be able to play any more of this season?” I asked.
My dad peered over my bed and began to explain that my arm was probably never going to regain feeling and I would probably never play another game in my life.
Two weeks later, I couldn’t believe this had happened. I mean, you read about this kind of stuff and one day you wake up normal, the next your dreams are ruined. I told myself I wasn’t going to let this happen. I went over to Raymond Field and tried to throw. My armed burned it felt like I just slammed it into a stove burner.
But then I had an idea. Maybe I could still play, maybe I still had a chance to save losing my one true love. I began to throw with my other arm. There was not a day in my life I ever threw with my left arm. My first throw was terrible, and went right over the fence, down by the basketball court. But I never gave up hope. Months later I had perfected throwing with my left arm.
Jimmy Ramma, went on to pitch for the Houston Astros for eight years before encountering a fatal car accident on October 4, 1990. His name will be remembered as a true American hero and one of the greatest players of all time.
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