Joe Rutter: Boo-boo that denied no-no lingers four decades later

Forty years later, I still swear it was an error.

The ball came off the bat like a top, spinning down the first base line. I was ready to field it when it changed direction and scooted through my legs.

The umpires conferred.

Base hit.

The only one our pitcher, Jeff Frelick, would give up in the game.

Details on the opponent, score and, heck, even the year are fuzzy, but not the gaffe in the seventh and final inning of play. Before my three decades at the Trib, including 14 covering the Pirates, I was Bill Buckner. I was Bill Buckner before Bill Buckner became Bill Buckner.

Frelick maintains ignorance. After all, it was four decades ago when we were about 15 or 16 and playing for a travel team in South Greensburg called the Little Joes.

And Jeff has bigger baseball concerns these days, what with his son, Sal, on the verge of becoming a first-round pick and possible Top 10 selection in the MLB Draft.

But while Sal, a Boston College outfielder and reigning ACC defensive player of the year, prepares for the biggest day of his young baseball career, I couldn’t help wondering about the sequence that separated his father from a shining individual moment.

Jeff wasn’t a baseball star. He had decent power, a strong arm and mostly played shortstop for our teams growing up. He was more established in football and eventually spent three years at Pitt as a walk-on fullback.

No-hitters for ace pitchers are no big deal. Happen quite frequently. For someone like Jeff, who wasn’t in our regular pitching rotation as I recall, a no-hitter was a memory worth savoring.

At least that’s what I believed.

When I emailed Jeff asking to interview him for a story about his son’s rise to baseball prominence, I mentioned the failed no-hitter. He recalled the “cue-ball” shot down the line, and then wrote: “For what it’s worth, I forgot about it because we won, but you are a perfectionist!”

Or just a guilt-ridden sports writer.

I couldn’t be the only one with a vivid recollection of the play, so I made a phone call to our catcher, Glenn Moyer, who had a front-row view from his perch behind the plate.

An excerpt of the conversation:

Me: “Do you know what my lasting memory of Jeff is?”

Glenn: “How you screwed him out of that no-hitter?”

OK, so I wasn’t alone.

What nobody else knew, though, was my mental mistake that was bigger than the gaffe on the field. I had no idea Jeff was throwing a no-hitter.

As a 5-foot-7, 150-pound kid, I was probably the smallest first baseman in the history of organized sports. I played the position for two reasons: I was left-handed, and I could scoop balls out of the dirt. I wasn’t much of a hitter, but my contributions were saving runs by fielding the position and getting putouts on errant throws by our sometimes wild-armed infielders.

On this night, at the old Greensburg Salem high school field, I began the game on the bench, which wasn’t uncommon given that I swung the bat like I was trying to swat a fly with a wet broom. As happens with teenagers, my mind roamed throughout the game — at least, that’s my excuse — and I lost track of what was taking place on the mound.

When I was asked to go in for the final inning, I figured it was because we had a comfortable lead and the coaches wanted to get me some playing time. No, it was to preserve Jeff’s no-hitter.

Unaware of what was at stake, I wasn’t immediately upset when that ball skidded through my legs. Then, I saw the umpires huddling and I looked around in confusion.

“He’s throwing a no-hitter!” someone said.

Suddenly, I was in panic mode, pleading with the umpires to change the call. But since I never touched the ball — just like Buckner a few years later — it stood as a single. When the game ended, I apologized profusely to Jeff for not throwing my body in front of the ball to stop it.

During our interview this past week, I brought up the no-hitter that wasn’t. Jeff laughed it off.

“We won,” he said. “It would be selfish of me to think it was all about the no-no.”

Jeff was nice enough to let me off the hook. Maybe, 40 years later, it’s time for me to do the same.