The Vacuum

The Cass Cougars and the Rise of "The Vacuum"

As a kid, sports were everything. Give me any kind of ball and I'd create a game, even if I was alone. The parking lots in my inner-city neighborhood became my playground, where I'd dream up imaginary teams to play against. My love for sports was endless, though my official team sports career was brief, confined mostly to elementary and middle school. By high school, in a school of 4,000 students, the pressure ramped up. The stakes were higher for many of my classmates, most of them fighting for college scholarships. I wasn’t that kid, and honestly, I couldn’t be. At 5'3", and with a frame that reflected my fondness for pizza more than physical training, I found myself outmatched.

But there was a time when I was really good at baseball. It didn’t last long—peaking at age 11—but for that short period, I had my moment in the sun. Back then, size didn’t matter as much, and being small was no barrier to playing the game I loved. It didn’t hurt, of course, that my dad organized the team. 

Our team was the **Cass Cougars**, an inner-city group of 11- to 13-year-olds brought together by my dad, a minister at Cass Church. We were ragtag, sure, but we had heart. I played second base, a perfect spot for someone like me. I didn’t have the cannon of an arm needed for third base or the outfield, but I had an uncanny ability to scoop up grounders. In fact, I earned the nickname **"The Vacuum"** because nothing got past me. 

It was a simple, slower form of the game—softball, with slow-pitch. And when it came to hitting, I had the ability to place the ball just about anywhere on the field, coupled with speed that could steal bases. For a little while, I felt untouchable. 

Then came an opportunity I couldn’t pass up—a summer job as an assistant cook at a camp. Imagine, an eleven-year-old cooking for a summer camp. And, to top it off, I was actually getting paid! Of course, full disclosure: my brother was the camp director, and my sister was the head cook. So, no, it wasn’t my culinary genius that got me the job. Just as my dad's influence helped me make the team, nepotism played a role here too. But to me, the paycheck was very real, and I relished the idea of earning my own money.

So, I made a decision: I quit the team to work at the camp. It felt like the right move at the time, and in many ways, it was. I loved the camp—working with hippies, cooking for older kids, and feeling special as the youngest staff member. I’ve never regretted that decision, but it came at the price of my baseball career.

When I returned from camp, the Cass Cougars were entering the playoffs. But the game had changed—literally. The league switched from softball to hardball, from slow-pitch to fast-pitch. And I had changed too. In my dual role as assistant cook and self-appointed taster of all things delicious (especially dessert), I returned 10 pounds heavier and noticeably slower. My speed, once my secret weapon, had dwindled from rabbit to tortoise. 

And hitting? Forget it. I couldn’t hit a fastball with a tennis racket. I struck out more times than I care to remember, unless I was lucky enough to walk. My coach, bless his heart, still thought I could contribute, so I was reduced to the role of pinch runner. But those extra pounds felt like anchors on my heels, and my days of flying around the bases were long gone.

Despite my decline, the Cougars went on to win the playoffs. I got a trophy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t deserve it. It was like the Little League rule where everyone had to play, even the bad players. I was "participation" embodied. Yet, despite everything, my memories of that team remain some of the fondest of my childhood—the camaraderie, the practices, the thrill of winning.

For a brief, shining moment in baseball, I was “The Vacuum”—a nickname I held with pride. As life would have it, I’d reclaim that title years later as a father, but this time for a far less glamorous reason. Instead of scooping up grounders, I now scoop up dust and crumbs and vacuum around the house. But it’s all part of the game, right? 

Still, nothing can take away the memory of being an 11-year-old boy on a ragtag team of dreamers, standing on second base, glove in hand, ready for whatever came next.