A good day to play, too bad nobody is...

Yep showing your age I am 48-(49 this week ). We didnt have x-boxes, cell phones, computers. We played in a pasture my grandfather cut grass as short as he could--had 1 baseball that sometimes--most of time was a little waterlogged--wood bats--sometimes cracked--we played till it got dark---really dark. Thorn bushes were home run fence had scraps all over arms from searching for ball--what a great time." Kessinger to Beckett to Banks it's a double play" good ole Jack Brickhouse.

Those were the days my friend

Bulldog;
great memories.

My early days were in Adrian, Michigan and Michigan State U. Same fields, no umpires, we taught our self to hit and to debate "out or safe".

On weekends, I was paid $10.00 a game to play in an Hispanic Adult league in Toledo. I was 16 years of age.

Same year, I played in the "Times" State tournament for the best HS players, in Tiger Stadium.

Years later [1987], I develop the Area Code games from this experience.

Bob

I woke up to a sunny Saturday morning in the steel town my parents called home for their entire lives. Placing my feet on the cool wooden floor and sitting on the side of my bed rubbing my eyes, I thought about the day. This was not just going to be any Saturday; this was to be the day of our neighborhood World Series. Plenty of planning had gone into this day and the weather seemed to be cooperating. I had met at recess with John, the leader of the “Flats” baseball team, a rival neighborhood who boasted that they had all the better players. True, they were a tighter group since most were from a poor apartment complex in a less fortunate area. However, we had a budding star, the son of a major leaguer, who would be my game day pitcher. There was no doubt, if we could field a team, we would win.

It was my job to start the recruitment process. I had talked with many of my recruits about this important day and I had enough commitments to feel good about it. However, until I started pounding on doors I wouldn’t know if my plan would come to fruition. There were always the kids who hadn’t gotten out of bed yet, the kids who wanted to watch Saturday morning cartoons, some who were going to visit grandma or had gotten grounded for shooting out the neighbor’s window out with a bb gun. There were all sorts of road blocks that might be discovered. I gobbled down a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch and left the milk out on the counter. I’d get chewed out for that later but there was no time to put it away. After all, I was already down the steps with my Milt Pappas signature glove and my Al Kaline Louisville Slugger. It had been cracked, nailed together and taped a couple of times already.

My first stop would be right across the street to pick up Mark. The fastest kid in the neighborhood, he would lead off. All I had to do is figure out how to get him on base. He could go from first to third easily and steal home on a passed ball. I hopped on my Scwhinn Sting Ray, threw the glove over the handlebars, weaved the bat barrel under the seat and between the handlebar posts and rode out the drive. Mark was already sitting out on the stone wall in front of his house and I breathed a sigh of relief. Next door we roused Scotty, and up the road we got Jim. Tad, Ray and Murph all answered the door. The last but not the least, our all important ninth player was Mitch. Without him we’d have to play two in the outfield. I wanted a complete team. Today was the perfect of all days. Mitch was in the driveway waiting. We rode to the Radio Tower Field together. My star pitcher was already there warming up against the backstop. A lefty with serious heat and movement that none of us had ever seen before.

The game was planned for ten o’clock so we had time for some practice. Being the catcher, I hit infield practice and some flies. By that time the other team had started drifting in. It was soon time to choose home and away ups. I handed my Al Kaline to John. He tossed it in the air back at me and I caught it at the top of the label in my right hand. He never had a chance to win. I had bottlecaps all over him at the end. There were more than a few arguments about safe and out calls but we managed to get through the entire game without it breaking down. Two balls were hit into the rightcenter field multiflora roses which stopped the game for quite some time while we convinced Jim to crawl in after both. Well, maybe it was more threatening than convincing. When the dust settled in that all dirt infield, we had won the game.

By today’s standards that game really didn’t amount to much. We were just a bunch of bored young teens competing for bragging rights in a rusty old neighborhood in Western Pennsylvania. There were no parents, no umpires, no uniforms, no fans, no manicured infield or even dugouts. Later, many of us would play in organized baseball. I would witness a coach punch out an umpire, a player fighting with his own father, and two parents meeting behind the dugout to settle an argument about whose son was better. I’d like to think we kids became better at settling our disputes and problem solving not because of our organized participation but because of days like that sunny Saturday in 1972.

Bulldog,

Thanks for the link, it brings back good memories. Of course I wasn't playing baseball "back in the day", but softball, down at the neighborhood park with no parents needed.

PA Dino,

Great post! Did you write it? Very nice story.

Julie

Julie,

Yes.

My parents set clear boundaries and enforced them. Then they let me be a kid. Simple as that.

Childhood memories are the purest memories because they aren't tainted with adult motives. For instance, I can still remember listening to Bob Prince call Pittsburgh Pirates games on a portable radio I kept on the headboard of my bed. "It's a can of corn." Or "We got a bug on the rug." and "Chicken on the hill with Will."

Those memories may not be completely accurate but they are completely pure.

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That was a nice bit of writing PA Dino. Thanks for sharing your very descriptive story. I felt like I was there...listening to the tower's guylines singing in the wind!



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Dino,

I grew up in Pittsburgh, and I'm sure you will appreciate this: our baseball field was the street in front of our houses. The houses were on one side of the street, set atop a hill (what else?). There were few enough cars on the street, but the people who owned the ones that were there were kind enough to move them when we asked. Some of the old timers would sit out on their porches and watch the festivities.

The other side of the street was another hill - no houses, just lots of trees, our urban version of woods. The ground rules were simple: hit the ball straight. If it stayed on top of the hill to the left, or rolled down the hill to the right, it was an out, because someone would have to chase it. If the ball rolled down the hill to the left, or stayed at the top of the hill on the right, it was a foul ball, and you had a second chance.

While we live in a nice suburban neighborhood with plenty of public parks and places to play, I wish my kids would have had that experience of playing until dark with all the neighborhood kids just having fun.

PA Dino,

Cool. You should keep writing.

Julie

Dino - I absolutely loved your story. It was Norman Rockweller in words and it brought back so many memories.

I grew up about 80 miles to the North of you in Northwestern PA and I shared almost identical childhood experiences as you describe. Your words really touched me today and brought back some very fond memories.

I have said this many times but I'll keep saying it, we have some of the very best writers you'll find anywhere here at the hsbbweb!

On my dad's side of the family he had it seemed 100's of brother's and sister's which resulted in 1000's of cousins. Ok..I'm exaggerating a wee bit but not much. lol.

So we always had plenty of young boys playing baseball with those same waterlogged baseballs and nailed/taped wooden bats.

But the most important key to our ball playing on those hot summer Georgia days was my Pointer. A dog that loved to sit and watch every game with enthusiasm. Whenever we would hit foul balls back into the thick weeds, brush, and pointy sticker bushes we would send him in. After about 5 minutes she would come out, tail wagging, with a ball in his mouth so we could get back to serious business. It was as if he was WAITING for us to foul the ball back.

I won't say anything about arguing a call at 3b when my cousin slid in and I KNEW he was out. My dad called him safe and I (kinda) threw the ball back at him hard (he was both teams Pitcher). All I remember was his glove flying off and he was headed towards me. Unfortunately his ankle found a hole and POP. End of story. lol.

OH....those fond memories (less my Dad breaking his ankle).

Great story Dino! I was half way across the US from you, a few years earlier in the late sixties, but its amazing how similar our stories are. What was unusual in those days, is that several guys would come play even though they didn't play in the organized leagues and weren't really in love with baseball. It was just something kids would do.

I always got to school at 0720 so I could play HR derby until 0800 and wolfed down my lunch in 10 minutes so we could play for twenty minutes at lunch. Now it takes an hour to get a game organized with infield practice and umpire meetings. We didn't care about those things, we just wanted to play. I loved every minute of it and agree that kids learned how to argue without violence, negotiate, and be leaders without adults having anything to do with it.

It still happens. My 13 year old was next door at the neighbors yesterday playing 'smushball', a game with basically a broom handle and a minature, half deflated basketball. The ball was half deflated so it wouldn't go over the fence in the yard.

He played it until well after dark. We had to drag him back in the house.

Great post. I grew up in the projects in he south bronx. Before anyone thinks this is a *** story I'll tell you that I wouldn't change or trade my childhood for anything in the world. I had over 100 friends at my fingertips. We played from dawn till dusk and then wiffle ball under the street lights. It varied from baseball on a glass and rock filled field(the highlight of our day) to spongeball,hitting bottle caps,off the point,just plain old rundowns, kick the can baseball and i could go on. I dont envy my kids. If you dont put an umpire and a league they wont play. By the way we produced a major leaguer who went on to get over 2000 hits and three hundred hr's