Get your autographed Mark Littell book with a little Bootheel Mud to boot.
A GENEROUS PORTION OF EVERY SALE GOES TO OUR FOUNDATION FOR BASEBALL!!!
Spend a little time with Mark Littell and you will hear stories that leave you wondering, could that really happen? Spend a bit more time with him and you realize, oh, it absolutely could!
Before he pitched for the Royals and the Cardinals, Mark Littell’s character was formed on a cotton and soybean farm in the Missouri Bootheel. Growing up was a wild ride for Mark, full of family, fun, and more than a little mischief.
Mark’s first book, On The Eighth Day God Made Baseball, wasn’t just about baseball, it’s about never giving up, pushing through and past adversity and taking a look back at it all and mentoring others.
His second book, Country Boy Conveniently Wild, gives the reader a better understanding of where Mark came from: the Bootheel of Missouri. Mark grew up in redneck country and this book engages the reader with character shaping, life altering stories from his childhood. This book will take you through the many malfunctions of Mark’s early life, and introduce you to the folks who kept him in line and showed him the ropes.
Excerpt from God Made Baseball
With light air and miles of space, Mile High Stadium was not friendly to pitchers. I threw 7 innings and gave up a lone solo shot in the 4th inning to Cliff Johnson that was golfed 6 inches off the ground.
Tommy Harmon, who was catching me, came out and said, “I gotta shake your hand, that is without a doubt the longest f***ing ball I’ve ever seen hit. Cliff’s foot was touching second as the ball peaked.”
Excerpt from Country Boy Conveniently Wild
Sunday Rat Killin’
Our method was simple: we took five gallons of gas and five gallons of diesel, then poured them down the hole and waited for the rats to come out. Farm gas only cost about $0.28 a gallon and diesel was even less, so for about $2.50 you could literally have a blast. When a lot of rats would come out, that’s when it got fun.
Each of us carried a baseball bat or a machete, and when these suckers came out drenched in this concoction of gas and diesel, they would scurry around in circles, blinded. We’d beat the s*** out of ’em or chop ’em up with the machete. Our dog Fritz got in the action too. He’d grab one and flip it up in the air or put it back into play where Eric and I could get back in the action. What a dog, he could really hunt!