Six innings, six minutes. A tale of two cities, before and after | MARK HUGHES COBB

Can you see the plate?

Usually when you go back where you came from (in my case, Dothan) things look smaller than you remembered.

I took the photo below a weekend ago, on a visit to the Circle City, standing dead center up against the fence at Doug Tew Recreation Center , where, at 12, I made what turned out to be the weirdest/best play of my baseball life, and that's including the time, as catcher for Tuscaloosa Academy 's first nine to post a winning record, I knocked out (accidentally) a guy's front two teeth.

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He (their team's catcher) never made it home.

Home plate, I mean. Took two snaps of the smelling salts to bring him around. Freaky. At 18, I felt sure I was going down for murder. Still need to look that guy up, to apologize. That wasn't so much great as memorable, obviously.

Back to the Chapman Cardinals.

It was an Edward Bulwer-Lytton moment, so Mom insisted I wasn't going. Dad pointed out the thunder was sounding from west of town, and rolling away. Then Coach Rex called .... I was having a good year, batting fifth, playing center or first, depending on who was pitching.

Year before? Rex might not have bothered calling.

Nah, Rex wasn't that kind of coach. Year before, last game of the season, I had a decent night. Caught a fly, then at bat against a pitcher who shaved three times a day and threw like he was angry at the the refreshment stand beyond, eked out a fluke hit. As my folks walked out with me that night, Rex took the time to come over, put his hand on my shoulder and say "Mark is our most improved player."

From that day to next spring, a prophecy began to fulfill. Next year, I punished the ball, and won my spot. I'd grown half a foot, and somehow coordination had come back in with the height and width.

That night, with Rex and Dad insisting we'd take no unnecessary chances, Mom relented. We got there bottom of the second. Rex put me in left field, because the guy I'd sub in for was on deck next inning.

First at-bat, I knocked in a run. Drove in two more later. Bottom of the sixth (last, in Little League), we were up by two, two out, but the bases were loaded.

High fly cracks to center. The poor kid playing my usual spot lost it in the lights: He ran forward, the ball arcing over.

Following Coach Rex's fundamentals, I'd run over to back him up. The ball bounced once, hit the fence with a splat, and fell like a shot duck to the deepest, dankest spot in the park.

I swear that horsehide looked like it was trying to dig its way out under the chain link.

By the noise I knew the runner on third must have scored, so it's good I didn't have time to look ― squint — at home, to see how far it was. Just spun and threw in a motion.

The pitcher (Danny .... Martin, maybe?) was cutoff man (again, we were well coached), but he stepped back and let the throw fly, right to Stevie Benak's mitt, and while Excitable Steve (the most joyous when we won; the most heartbroken when we didn't) failed to knock anyone's incisors out, he did tag the potential tying run.

Ballgame, Cards.

Next practice, and for the rest of the season, my nickname was Ol' Lightnin'. Definitely could have been worse.

Silverscreen years later, lightning struck a tree in the backyard where a father had fallen. The oak split in half, leaving an incandescent upright core. The father's bereft son saw a golden opportunity, cut down the remaining wood, and carved, sanded and shaped it into a sword.

No wait, a bat.

In the place where would usually reside an autograph: Wonderboy.

I was never a natural-born anything, except maybe fool and movie nut, and certainly not the best there ever was or would be, but that rollercoaster Little League year from pits to highlights did deliver a lesson. It's easy to get frustrated with changes, but dishwater dull to repair: Rehearse, rinse, repeat. Do it slower, over and again. Listen. Look. Feel, hear and, where applicable, taste.

And possibly, probably, you'll still suck, for a given value, where suck = not great.

Then comes the question of measuring greatness. Sports' simplicity is easy to love: You score more, you win. You're stronger, faster, quicker, more resilient? You can be the champ.

The difficulty lies in everything else, without lines, rules and scoreboards. Does greatness derive from popularity? If so, then the Beatles, or the Rolling Stones, or Taylor Swift, or Elvis Presley might be the greatest of them all.

Heresy warning: They may not be. There's certainly something to consensus when it comes to science, the search for truth through experimentation, repetition and results.

But the ultimate artist may have never been heard. He, she or they may have lived before written language, before recording, or in such a remote place that only 100 people ever heard.

If a tree falls in a storm, but no symbol derives, what matters, other than going on and on until going can't be done?

Not just from April 27, 2011, but from April 28, 2014, and from 2000, and 1997, and on and on, we know not to evade danger, to not play ultra-slow cubicle chicken when warnings go out. From thunder, we intuit danger.

Trees falling may break our hearts, but can also open vistas, leaving ground for new growth.

Mark Hughes Cobb is the editor of Tusk. Reach him at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Six innings, six minutes. A tale of two cities, before and after | MARK HUGHES COBB