The laziest ballplayer ever to pull on a pair of cleated shoes was a semi-pro pitcher who performed for a sandlot outfit somewhere in West Texas. He did everything in a slow and vague manner. Everything, that is, except pitch. Aside from that, the kid was bone-lazy.
One hot Sabbath afternoon, the lazy youngster’s team was in a tight contest with another outfit from a neighboring town. Midway in the game, the lazy kid was suddenly ordered into the contest as a relief pitcher. He pulled himself together and shuffled slowly to the dusty mound.
The umpire, who had been handling the game from behind the mound because he had neither mask nor chest protector, waited patiently for young lazy-bones. The hurler made a few slow-motion warm-up tosses to the plate. At no time did he stop to look around him. Finally he took a deep breath and spoke for the first time.
“How many on base?” he drawled.
The umpire’s mouth popped open with astonishment. “Just one,” he finally said. “There’s a runner on second.”
Young lazy-bones started a long slow stretch. When his arms were out in front of him as far as they would go, he spoke again.
“How big’s his lead?” he asked.