Multiple Births
Why ask for trouble?

Lately I have noticed an increase in news stories regarding multiple births. These unsettling reports always seem grab my attention as if a smarmy carnival barker has spied my curiosity and has begun to slowly reel me into his sideshow. Although twins run in my family, my sisters and I have (so far) successfully dodged the double-barreled bullet, managing to produce, or in my case, help produce, but one offspring at a time. Please don't misunderstand, I love my sixteen year-old son Will with all of my heart, but if there were two of him I would surely be broke, exhausted and alternately signing my paychecks over to Food Lion and Progressive Auto Insurance.

By now, you may have heard the bizarre tale of the California woman who gave birth to octuplets, thus answering the prayers of every tabloid editor on the planet. Eight babies! I'm not an expert at this kind of thing, but isn't that considered a liter? Imagine the confusion in that home! My Mom had some difficulty getting all of my sibling's and my names straight, often calling role before reaching the right handle, and there were only six of us!

Thirty years ago I had the opportunity to coach identical twins and gained first hand knowledge of the havoc they can inspire. Their names were Brad and Chad. I will refrain from revealing their last name out of respect for their long-suffering parents. These boys were lunatics and their reputation as hooligans in my hometown was that of legend. At age ten, when I had the privilege to coach them, they were just beginning their reign of terror.

Brad and Chad were nearly exact replicas of each other. They walked, talked, ate, and spoke identically. The difference in the two could only be ascertained on the baseball field. Brad was a wonderful hitter, but could not catch a ball if it was covered with industrial glue. Chad was a gifted infielder but could not hit a piñata with a boat oar. Through some odd generic disaster authored by the scornful baseball Gods, together they equaled one very good ballplayer.

Previous to a night game in mid-May, Chad arrived at the field looking pale as a rosin bag. He explained that he was suffering from the flu and that Brad was at home unloading everything that he had eaten for the past two weeks on the kitchen floor. With only eight players in the dugout, I pushed Chad into quarantine on the far side of the dugout instructing him to stay away from the other players. Sick or not Chad had showed up and would have to play or the team would forfeit.

I batted Chad first in the lineup so he could return to the bench quickly after his usual weak at-bat; however, to everyone's surprise he lined a double into the left-centerfield alley and scored a run later in the inning. As he crossed home plate Chad grabbed his stomach, dashed past the dugout and bolted towards the restroom behind the grandstand. When the inning ended, Chad emerged from the men's room and staggered out to the field.

Following each inning Chad would dart directly to the bathroom after he hit or after he came in from the field, looking more death-like with each trip to the commode. Despite
his appearance Chad was having a career day at the plate, driving in three runs and scoring two. At the end of the fifth inning Chad was late coming back from the bathroom and the umpire allowed me some extra time to retrieve him and escort him back to the field.

When I reached the facilities, I could hear some scuffling as I opened the men's room door. Inside I found Chad feverishly switching uniform tops with his brother Brad, who had been hiding in the restroom since the game began. The twins had been planning this for months. Brad would arrive at the field in Chad's uniform (knowing we were the visiting team and would be batting first) and hit for Chad. Brad would then run to the bathroom, switch jerseys with Chad and Chad would play the field until it was time to hit again, when Brad would take over. The shear genius of the plot was stupefying.

Shocked and a little embarrassed, I alerted the umpiring staff to this clever charade, and threw myself on their mercy. Naturally, my heartfelt speech praising the boys for pooling their talents to help the team fell on deaf ears and we were forced to forfeit the game. I have never coached twins since.

Not all twins are as daffy as Chad and Brad, but many pairs that I have met do tend to carry an air of mischief about them. Do you suppose that Tiki Barber has ever considered sleeping in and slipping brother Rhonde past the Today Show producers one morning? Hey, perhaps that has already happened? Only Roanoke's most famous twins know for sure.