How ‘bout them Brew Boys! They made my old heart skip a beat. They reminded me of the first fib I ever told. It was on the morning of Game One of the World Series. I was in fourth grade, and Little League Baseball was my life. The Series was between the New York Yankees and Brooklyn Dodgers, and on the morning of that first game I hollered from bed, “Ma! I don’t feel so good!”

She gave me a tablespoon of cod liver oil and said, “Honey, you better stay home from school” I wanted to jump up and hug her, but I moaned and rolled over. The cod liver oil was horrible, but I choked it down and thanked God under my covers for a day off from school to listen to Game One on my new portable radio.

Both teams were just loaded with super-stars. Carl Erskine was the starting picture for the Dodgers, and Allie Reynolds would be on the mound for the Yankees. I was so excited I could hardly keep myself in bed, but I did. I curled up with my portable radio and my pillow, and was contented as I had ever been in my young life. 

With every crack of the bat I could see a ball in the air. With every out I could see a glove open and close. It was my first visit to Heaven on the Half Shell, and I could not have been any happier.

Pee Wee Reese was the shortstop for the Dodgers, my hero! I wanted nothing more out of life than to be like Pee Wee. For all intents and purposes I was Pee Wee Reese on cod liver oil.

Well, with game one tied in the 7th inning, I crawled into the living room beneath my blanket, and that’s where my mother found me, curled up in front of our new round-screen black and white Zenith TV, watching the World Series. It was then that I learned not to lie to my mother, for she walked over, turned off the TV, and told me to get back in bed.

The Yankees won that Series 4 games to 2, but for the rest of that school year, I was Pee Wee Reese on our Little League team. The only problem was my feet were too big. My high-top Keds were huge, and stuck out in front of me like a couple kayaks, so when a ground ball came my way, it bounced off one of my Keds and hit me in the chin every time. My own teammates took to calling me, “Tennis Shoe Ernie.” It was embarrassing.

So when the Brewers won the Series this year, I felt redeemed, as this was a team of underrated Tennis Shoe Ernies, just like me.

I took one thing home with me from that 1953 Series that has been with me to this day, and that was a simple promise to never lie to my mother again … and I didn’t.

Want to hear McAvoy Layne tell it? Go here for an audio version of this column. For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.”