Baseball Memories

Chief Justice Earl Warren said he turned first to the sports pages of his morning paper to read of man’s accomplishments before checking out Page One to read of man’s failures. I understand his point, and his frustration, but the sports sections these days reveal a lot of failures, too, especially when it comes to steroids, spoiled baseball players and out-of-control executives.
It’s sad to see baseball sink so low. It was one of our staples in Grant County years ago. In summer months, the game was about all we had for entertainment. TV was still in its infancy, viewers relegated to one upstart station which didn’t sign on until 4 in the afternoon. It was too hot to sit in the un-air-conditioned houses so naturally we lived for baseball and the two nights each week when we put on new uniforms and showcased our talent at the city’s new Little League field.
I ran across some old newspaper clippings from the halcyon days of my baseball youth. The article talked about the opening of Little League season and how the town was anxious for the new park to shine under the AP&L lights. Pap kept the scorebook for all of the games and people came from all around to watch the Yanks and the Cubs and the Cards and the Phils swing away for the new wooden fence.
As I get older, I think about those wonderful nights under the lights, up where the sycamores offered soothing shade from the setting sun. A sprawling school complex sits there now, fancy cars parked where we used to slide into second base and whip the ball around the horn. No sign of the little wooden snack stand where Joe Wilson, a gangly high schooler, thrilled little kids by opening the Coke bottles with his shiny senior ring. No evidence of the old haunted house across the street, either, where kids swallowed hard before dashing into the spooky front yard to retrieve the errant foul tips. A rescued baseball could net a kid a free Coke or a giant Zero bar, and when the ball sailed over the backstop, the race was on to see who could rescue the prize. The most vivid memory from those wild scrambles remains the terrible car crash, the night little Jack was struck and almost killed. The kids had never seen so much blood on a human--doubtful that any of the adults had either—but Jack survived. He was a tough, witty, gritty kid who, not surprisingly, died a short time later on a Vietnam battlefield, protecting his fellow grunts from a grenade. He deserved a better fate and so did his revered family, but he made our town proud, the way he saw his military duty and done it in the distant killing fields.
The memories have lasted a long, long time and that’s why it’s sad for an old ballplayer to see the storied game, once labeled the national pastime, in such disarray. Don’t even care to turn on the fancy big screen to watch the Redbirds or the Braves. The old Braves skipper is still a favorite, himself an ex-Traveler and all, but it’s just not worth the time now to see these pumped-up robots do their thing. Good grief, they even vacated the house the Ruth built!
The news in March about George Kell dying dredged up some of my baseball memories. I used a Kell-Kaline bat back in my days, out at the Oliver Williams legion field. Frank I and Doobie were my managers and they did a lot of good things for us. Mr. Oliver drove us thousands of miles, too, in his roomy station wagon and we rewarded some of their efforts by winning championships, even claiming a prized spot in the state finals. We had a very good team, the pro scouts drooling over some of the talent, and we captured a lot of trophies, some of which still claim a prominent spot on the crowded bookshelves. I’ve held on to a couple of my old gloves, but I wonder if I could catch a ball now or go deep in the hole at short to throw out a speedy runner. The knee replacement surgery probably put an end to any comeback dreams. Better be content to just dream and sit in the big leather recliner, in front of the giant Sony. A few folks around town still ask about my pitching days, even kind Alderman Cummings openly bragging to people at a courthouse gathering that I still hold the state strikeout record.
One of my favorite legion ball memories was a night on the mound when young Mike Tygart made his debut on our team. He had moved to Sheridan in the summer of 1964 with his family, fresh out of Babe Ruth battles in Pine Bluff where he was heralded as a promising up-and-comer. Manager Frank put him in at catcher and after a few warm-up tosses, he hustled out to the mound to talk. He raised the mask and asked politely if we could go over the signs, the customary finger waving catchers do to pitchers in order to co-ordinate the types of pitches to be thrown. “How about 1 for fastball and 2 for curve,” the kid said confidently as he turned to walk away. “Fine,” I answered, continuing. “And 3 for slider, 4 for screwball and closed fist is what I prefer for my change-up.” He turned back and smiled at me through the big mask and quipped: “Hey, I think I’m gonna like playing ball with y’all.”
Turns out the cocky kid became the best all-round athlete of the whole bunch, going on to excel in every local sport long after we had left town for college ball. We didn’t know it, that night of his legion ball debut, but we were about to leave the Sheridan baseball program in very capable hands with him as the next steady leader.
The memories fade in and out when I try to remember the games and the players, but I do enjoy thinking about it. Back when it was the love of my young life. Back when Murry and Mr. Holmes and Newt and Roy Winston inspired us to stretch our abilities and imaginations. Back when a game of work-up helped pass the time on a Saturday afternoon after we had sat for a while with Pap to watch the Game of the Week on the old black-and-white. Back when a nickel and a penny would buy a Coke and a handful of salty redskin peanuts during our mid-day break and back when Dickie entertained all of the swooning girls by revving up his newest Corvette. Back when kids wore flattops and Joyce and Joe served hamburgers for a quarter. Back when church bells rang on Sunday morning and overflow crowds gathered at the courthouse for election results. And back when Sunday afternoon at the old Sheridan A’s field was the greatest treat in the world for a wide-eyed kid growing up out on the Redfield Road. Bookie and W. A. and Jerry and Paul were bigger than life to me back then, the way they could throw a baseball and jack with each other. And when they slugged one over Highway 167 in left, over by the service station, well the crowd roared their enthusiasm and I logged it all away in my little noggin, knowing even then that what I was seeing could be gone one day, but knowing full well, too, that what I was seeing could be comforting lifelong memories.
We drove up to see the nephew play ball last summer. It was enjoyable and after the game I asked if his team had ended up on the winning side. “Oh, we don’t keep score,” one of the parents quickly opined. I asked why and was told that none of the parents wanted the kids to ever think they were “losers.” I didn’t say anything in response, but I was thinking on the trip home that some of my best lessons probably came from ballgames we lost, maybe even when I struck out on a Wally Britt round-house curve. And, I was also thinking that sometimes we over-protect our kids. My old managers were tough and they didn’t mind chewing us out when we lost a game or threw wild to first base and I think my old bunch turned out pretty good.
I know my grandkids will learn a lot of valuable lessons along the way and that I won’t always be around to help out, but I hope their leaders, whether on the ballfield or in the classroom, don’t sugar coat things too much for them. I hope they learn that you can learn a lot in life and a lot about life by doing your very best, by giving your all. And if you come up a little short on the scoreboard, well, that’ll be alright, too. The old Indian chief told Outlaw Josey that the only sage advice he got from the government was that he should endeavor to persevere. I think that’s good advice. I have my baseball memories and no one can ruin any of that. Maybe those who follow me will find a favorite sport, too, like I did long ago. And I hope the next bunch will endeavor to persevere. Our country will need that.