Play Ball!

 

Play Ball!

The first time that I was really jealous I was about twelve.  It was late May and the school year was winding down.  After the school bell sounded signaling the end of the day, I usually headed right for home.  It was just over a mile walk; I didn’t mind it except for the days it was raining, snowing or below zero.  Since the weather in Wisconsin is almost always ideal, I almost always didn’t mind the walk.  This day one of my good friends asked if I could stay around so he could show me his new bike.  It was the first ten-speed racer I had ever seen.  He let me take it around the block.  It sure made my little twenty-inch bike that I’d been riding since I turned five look sad in comparison.  But don’t jump too fast to conclusions; the fancy ten-speed wasn’t the source of my jealousy.

About half way home I had to cross Military Avenue, which at the time was the last major street on the west side of Green Bay as you headed out of town.  I realized that I must have stayed at school longer than I thought because, Mrs. Baeten, the crossing guard had already called it a day.  As I approached the corner I saw Tom Enerson headed towards me on his bike.  It wasn’t his bike either that made me jealous; it was what he was wearing.

As he crossed to where I was standing on the street corner he hit his brakes to say “hi”.  I nodded.  “Where are you headed?” I asked.  “Perkin’s Park, it’s the first game of the season for my Little League team.” he replied.  I looked him over.  He had a full baseball uniform on.  It was white with red pin stripes.  The visor on his red baseball cap was pulled down low.  He was wearing red ball jet sneakers, but there was a pair of real cleated baseball shoes draped over the handle bar of his bike.  He looked like he just stepped out of his very own bubble gum card.  I wished him “good luck” even though I didn’t really mean it. 

Almost all of my baseball career consisted of summer pick up games at the diamond at Murphy Park.  There was no league; the players were whoever showed up at the park on any given day with a glove hanging from the handle bars of their bike.  We hardly ever had enough players for a real game.  Most of the infielders played deep near the outfield grass and if we had enough for someone to play the outfield they usually picked a spot in center field and chased whatever was hit that far. 

The only time I played anything that even resembled real baseball was one summer when the scoutmaster organized a summer league that consisted of four games.  We played on the big field by my school.  There was only one real baseball diamond, and enough kids for four teams so one of the games was held on the far end without a backstop or a marked infield.  We didn’t have uniforms; no one matched. 

We never had any practices; we just showed up for the games.  The first game my team mates suggested that I pitch, because I usually did during recess games.  I wound up pitching and winning all four games.  But the thing that I took the greatest pride in was in hitting at-least one home run in every game; I hit two twice.  Well, on either field there was no outfield fence, so a home run usually meant you hit it over everyone’s heads and managed to round the bases before they could get the ball back in.  I never got to hit one “over the fence” and take a legitimate and leisurely home run trot around the bases.

My one summer of scout baseball did not satiate my jealousy.  I still thought back on my baseball career that never was.  That was until my own sons all got their chance to play organized baseball; the two oldest stayed with it long enough to wear real uniforms and even hoist a league championship trophy.  I never talked to them about my own youth baseball.  That doesn’t mean that I may not have done a little daydreaming between innings.  I was always very clear in my own heart that they didn’t play for me; it was their own youth that lived.  They made their own memories.  But I share enough in them that I no longer feel a need to be jealous.  Besides, as far as I know, Tom Enerson never made it to Cooperstown. 

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan         

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash