In The Batter's Box
I was never great at sports.
I loved playing tee-ball in my younger years. My defense was solid, and the ball was easy to crush off the non-moving tee. Despite the simplicity of the sport, I was overly proud of my “accomplishments,” and considered myself the Ted Williams of our league. Ladies and gentlemen, start your ego! I enjoyed watching the other rugrats react frantically to a base hit, giving me the perfect mental image for the phrase “running around like headless chickens.” The defense always struggled to catch a pop fly, and few had the coordination to turn a ground ball into an out at first base. All I had to do was connect with the ball and run as fast as I could. It felt like I made it on base 99% of the time, but I still managed to miss occasionally. There was nothing more embarrassing than harnessing all of my five-year-old strength, only to connect with the rubber post with a dull thud. Self hatred would take over as the ball feebly dribbled to the ground only inches from the tee. Where I learned the game, that didn’t even count as a strike. Missing the ball when it was perfectly presented on the tee felt so bad, I wished striking out was an option. It was a small taste of the participation trophies I would eventually “win” by showing up, and only added to the self hatred. Wait, do I hate baseball, or does it hate me?
It turns out, you should be careful what you wish for. I struck out plenty as I got older, starting in a coach-pitch league, where adults from each team would soft toss to the batter. This introduced the first real variable in baseball and provided hilarious situations where fathers were hitting children at the plate. The highlight of each game was watching a grown man apologize to a kid who lacked the judgement or foresight to take even one step out of the batter’s box to avoid an errant ball. Seriously, if I was able to get out of the way, even as athletically inept as I was, everybody else should have been able to do so with ease. To be fair, no one had ever been hit by a pitch in tee-ball, and even I struggled to climb the learning curve of this new game. I could still hit some of those soft floaters, though not as consistently as the resting ball, and other teams started putting together good defenses. My batting average declined precipitously from my hall of fame days in tee-ball. A few years later, I was trying to hit dingers off of my peers, and any edge I once had on offense disappeared entirely.
Some people say that batting comes down to a “have it” or “don’t have it” situation. I did not have “it.” Looking at it more closely, I had bad swing mechanics, a poor batter’s mentality, and I was afraid of getting lasered by the inconsistent pitching from the other kids. Basically, I sucked and I was scared, but for good reason. Those same instincts that told kids to swing as hard as possible in tee-ball also applied to rookie pitchers on the mound. The harder you throw, the less accurate that throw will be. Everybody was trying to be the next Pedro Martinez, and didn’t care who got drilled in the process. More people were hit by pitches in a single little league game than in an entire major league season. Beyond the sheer terror, I wasn’t getting advice on how to improve my swing, or read a pitch. I can remember spending hours and hours fielding balls, but I have very few memories of practicing in the batter’s box, and I was never invited to a batting cage. Maybe I was so terrible that my coaches didn’t think it was worth putting time or effort into my improvement. It sucks, but with the benefit of hindsight, I think I have to agree.
In two years of batting (if we can call it that) against my peers, I never got on base. I don’t even think I grounded out, or made any kind of contact other than a foul ball. I was simply doomed to strike out every time I stepped up to the plate. There’s that winner’s mentality! Midway through my final season, I found myself playing against the best pitcher in the league. I can’t say that’s a great honor, as no one from my town has ever gone pro, or even made it in the minor leagues. I was predictably terrified of this pitcher’s inconsistency, as I’d seen plenty of my teammates nearly decapitated by his wild pitching. Coach could tell I was nervous as I walked to the on-deck circle, and stopped me to deliver the worst life advice I’ve ever received. He told me to stay firmly planted at the plate, regardless of where I thought the pitch was headed. I relinquished control of my future to Coach’s advice, and prepared to be decapitated.
I took my stance smack dab in the middle of the batter’s box. I stared down the pitcher with my very meanest look, and prepared for the inevitable strikeout. The first pitch looked like it would be down the center. I swung my not-so-trusty bat, and missed. Shocker. The catcher returned the ball to the pitcher, and I returned to the middle of the box, ready to swing again. He wound up, and released the second pitch. It looked outside, so I watched it go by. The count was one and one. I successfully read a pitch! See Dad, I’m not worthless! We reset again. The pitcher gave me his meanest look, wound up, and released. This time, the ball looked inside, really inside, but I did what my coach said and stayed firmly planted where I was. After a split second, my leg lit up in pain as the ball nailed me in the right thigh.
It felt like that ball wanted to travel through my leg to the back stop. It didn’t just hurt: waves of pain shot through my body, and I started to feel sick. Thanks Coach! The pitcher may have only had the strength of an eleven year old, but he channeled every ounce of inner Hulk into that throw. Thankfully, my muscles absorbed the impact without damaging bone. Most importantly, I finally got on base! Or I would have, if my leg didn’t give out on my as I trotted to first. I signaled to my coach that I needed a pinch runner, and he pulled me out of the game. I happily staggered back to the dugout with an “I told you so” look at Coach, and sat for the rest of the game, anxiously waiting for the 6 innings to be over. The end couldn’t come soon enough.
Despite my rare “success” in getting on base, we still lost the game. I can’t say I was broken up about it. I finally inspected the damage when I got home, and found the gnarliest bruise I’ve ever had. It was beautiful shades of purple and green with a bit of red scarring in the prime impact zone. The stitches were literally outlined on my leg. I told my parents this would be the end of baseball for me, and they never made me play another inning. I learned that sometimes you just have to remove yourself from bad situations, and realize your time is better spent doing other things. Take me out of the ball game.
Anyways, here’s my recipe for painfully hot chicken thighs:
Ingredients:
Hot chicken is one of my favorite things to eat, and playing baseball is one of my least favorite things to do. If baseball is involved, I am not. Baseball has burned me for years in ways that I don’t like, and hot chicken burns me in a way that I actually love. This recipe will make you forget about being the victim of bad coaching and pitching while a thousand playful fire ants dance on your tongue, down into your belly, and beyond. Trust me, you will mostly enjoy this experience.
4 Chicken Thighs (skinless, boneless)
1 Cup Flour
1 Tbsp Salt
1 Cup Buttermilk
1 Egg
2 Tbsp Hot Sauce (I used ghost pepper sauce to prove the point)
2 Cups Peanut Oil
4 White Bread Buns
Sauce
¼ Cup Butter
½ Cup Peanut Oil
3 Tbsp Cayenne
2 Tbsp Brown Sugar
1 tsp Chili Powder
1 tsp Paprika
1 tsp Mustard
1 tsp Garlic Powder
½ tsp Black Pepper
Equipment:
If you don’t have tongs, use a fork. If you don’t have a wire rack, use paper towels on the sheet pan. If you don’t have a sheet pan, then go get one! Remember to wash things as you go along. This recipe is way easier than hitting a ball off of an erratic pitcher, so thank your stars you survived little league, and get to work.
Dutch Oven/Large Pot
Small Pot
2 Large Bowls
Whisk
Tongs
Sheet Pan
Wire Rack
Active prep total: 40 minutes
Clean up: 20 minutes
This is the perfect meal for when you want to feel good about yourself. Not only is the final product amazing, but you will also feel like you earned it when you get to the finish line. The recipe is based on Nashville hot chicken, but I can’t bring myself to call it that since I am not from Nashville, and it is different from my experience with the chicken I have had in that city. The only downside is resisting the amazing smells as your hot chicken crisps up in the pan, and the idea of sticking your hand in is met by the reality that you are making hot chicken, not hot human hand. Talk about finger lickin’ good.
Instructions:
Get out your large bowls, and set them near each other. Think about jokes, but don’t make them. In one bowl, combine the 1 Cup Flour with the 1 Tbsp salt. In the other bowl, combine the 1 Cup Buttermilk, 1 egg, and 2 Tbsp Hot Sauce. Whisk the wet ingredients, and resist the temptation to try a little. Raw egg is no-no nasty.
Now it is time to get the pot of oil ready. Add 2 Cups of Peanut Oil to your Dutch Oven/Large Pot at medium heat. If you have a kitchen thermometer, you are looking for 325°F. If you don’t, use an educated guess. I don’t recommend putting one drop of water in the oil, but it can give you an idea of how hot it is. It will definitely splatter, or spatter, both of which are bad, so just get a kitchen thermometer and don’t put your life at risk.
On to the thighs! Place one chicken thigh in the flour mixture and shake it all about until it is completely coated. Oops, wrong dance. Then, place the floured thigh in the milk mixture, once again making sure it is completely coated. Finally, return the chicken thigh to the flour mixture, coat it once more, and place it on the plate. Repeat the process with your other thighs until you have completed this Chicken Dance.
When the oil is hot, it is time to gingerly place your chicken thighs in the Dutch Oven/Large Pot using your tongs. If your oil does not start bubbling when the chicken is added, it is too cold. If it reacts like Mount Doom when the chicken is added, it is probably too hot. To be sure, you can use a kitchen thermometer. Again, use your tongs to place the thighs slowly into the oil, making sure not to splatter any on yourself, as it will hurt- not as much as a fastball to the leg, but you get the point. Cook the thighs for 8 minutes per side, or until internal temperature is at or above 165°F. Try to resist picking at the beautiful golden crust before it is fully cooked!
We don't want grease to drip everywhere when the chicken is done cooking, so while it's still enjoying its oil bath, place a wire rack over the sheet pan. If you used the sheet pan earlier and it's covered in raw chicken, don't worry about it. The wire rack is like a two-way mirror and the raw stuff can't touch your perfect crispy thighs.
You can also make your sauce! In your small pot on medium-low heat, combine ¼ Cup Butter, ½ Cup Peanut Oil, 3 Tbsp Cayenne, 2 Tbsp Brown Sugar, 1 tsp Chili Powder, 1 tsp Paprika, 1 tsp Ground Mustard, 1 tsp Garlic Powder, and ½ tsp Black Pepper. This will also smell amazing, but DO NOT TOUCH IT! You just can’t help yourself, can you?
When the chicken is fully cooked, use your tongs to move each piece onto the wire rack. Let them sit for a few minutes to dry and cool, as some of the oil will remain in the crust and can burn your face off. Then again, the inherently hot nature of the chicken is about to do that anyway. Exercise whatever amount of caution you find necessary.
Check on your sauce to make sure the butter is entirely melted. If it is, it's done, and you should go ahead and either brush or toss the chicken with the sauce. The chicken will take on a devilish red glow that indicates, yeah, this is pretty hot. Don’t play around. Take it seriously. Seriously.
Wow. What a journey from painful thighs to painfully hot thighs. Remember when your brother told you that you sucked after the game? Yeah, he was right, but you learned something by suffering through the suck. You learned you could take the embarrassment. You learned how to push through the unrewarding times when you didn’t have the satisfaction of winning. You learned how to step back up to the plate. And finally, you learned that if you just keep hating every second of something, you don’t have to do it anymore! My life got better almost immediately after I quit baseball. Sure, I still had problems in every other walk of life, but I saved myself from being constantly exposed to something I hated. This painfully-hot-but-enjoyable chicken is the perfect reminder that there is something good even in the bad. You’ve become a better person through it all. Let this juicy, delicious, hot chicken remind you that you are a champion.
Just not at baseball.
