PLAY BALL

My grandmother Ethel told me that my grandfather John, who died very young from the effects of the first world war, loved baseball. She remembered he played “first baseman”.   When I heard that I decided I would play that position too  – even though I really didn’t know how.   I knew that baseball was a lot like kick-ball we played on the Wood School playground at recess and of course I saw the Phillies games on TV – but I would learn that was not like playing the game.

I asked my mom for a baseball glove and she thought it was a great idea.  On Saturday the first week in May a week before the Little League tryouts we visited Bob’s Sportscenter.  Mr. Bob was very helpful and advised that I shouldn't buy a big oversized first baseman's mitt.  He said, “As a beginner you don’t know where you may play, so the standard fielder’s mitt is the first glove for any position.  I was disappointed but settled on the Wilson Richie Ashburn model 2000 and Mr. Garton let my mom pay for it a few bucks each week, as it was $23.98, which came to almost half her weekly paycheck.

I practiced for hours throwing a tennis ball against the wall of our house.  Thump, and back came a hot grounder.  I got good at fielding bouncing wall balls – I would learn in a week that this had little to do with a hot grounder coming at you from a good batter.   At the tryout I was nervous when one of the coaches inspected my birth certificate. He said I was the right age but he looked a bit dubious after checking because I was twice as big as any of the other kids on the field.  Tonight, if I made it,  I was going to get my chance to play in a real uniform. 

The first thing we did was field ground balls.  A coach hit them to us on the grass less diamond.  I was very surprised to see how fast a hit traveled across the diamond. It  was nothing close to how I diligently practiced.  I watched how the other kids sort of squatted at the ready and tried it when it was my turn.  The first hit went right between my legs.  The next one took a wild bounce and caught me right on the chin.  I saw stars.  I said to myself, “Please don’t cry…please…please.”.  After I muffed another one, the coach yelled next.  I couldn’t believe I had missed 3 out of 3.  Next we lined up for batting.  I had played catch with my dad and grandfather but I had  never batted!  I watched the kid before me in line as the coach pitched to him.  It didn't look all that hard to do…until I tried to do it.  My turn came.  I took my place next to the rubber plate.  Tugged my hat as I saw the pros do on TV.  The coach threw the ball.  I never saw it.  Matter of fact, I wasn't even watching – I had closed my eyes and hoped I wouldn't get beaned.  The coach shouted, “Hey, son, keep your eye on the ball,” which I guessed ment don't close my eyes.  He tossed another and it was at least five feet outside – I lounged at it.   I hadn’t learned that one had to wait for a good pitch over the plate.  No matter where the ball went I went after it.  In the dirt, behind me – I tried to hit it.   Finally, after a dozen outrageous swats the coach came off the mound and put his arm around me and said quietly, “Kid ya got to wait for a good one.  You don’t have to swing every time.”  Ten pitches later I had hit one foul ball, a dribbler that went toward first base and then died outside the line.  I was mortified.

Two days later the Daily Republican newspaper published the team picks in the sports section.  I didn't make one of the regular teams which had real uniforms.  I was relegated to a “farm team” which was for the kids who needed to learn the game without pressure or getting hurt. I was doomed to play in the league where you just got a tee shirt for a uniform.  And to make matters worse – and very embarrassing to tell the truth.  I was going to be playing for Chubb’s Insurance, a local sponsor. I “chubby” as my mom reminded me many times.  Why couldn’t have played for Champion’s Hardware or the American Legion sponsor.  I knew I was going to be the topic of much never ending kidding on my school’s playground so I pondered whether I would show up for practice the following week.  The Official Little Leaguer's practiced and played on a real field with a fence and manicured grass.  I would play at a gravel lot near Union Lake.  After much angst, I showed up and continued night after night learning the game from a coach who was a former minor league player.  After a few weeks I started to hit the ball.  I discovered to my surprise that I really had “good eye'' as they say after all.  

We started to play other teams in June and I was required to bring my birth certificate to each game to prove that I was not an adult ringer hired by our sponsor to make Chubb’s a winner.   My mom bought me the big bat allowed because the bats that the team provided were much too small for me.  It was a Stan Musial Louisville slugger.  That too was examined each game – because with it I hit 14 homers in our 15 games.  (Farm league pitching was very hittable once you learned to wait for it) .  By mid-season I had my own first baseman’s mitt.   My mother thought I deserved a gift for doing so well.  I batted 425 that season.  

One father informed me after a game that I went 3 for 4 that I had hit the longest homerun ball he ever saw a kid hit!  I had become a ballplayer.  At the end of the season we played the regular Little League All Star team at their field in South Millville.  The first time I would play before bleachers with routing fans.  It was a thrill when at bat the first time I sailed one out to right center that landed in the factory parking lot across the street.  And my love for the game which was kindled that year and it grew to a flame. I went on to play each summer into my college years.  A left handed “power hitter” I was dubbed in one newspaper article.  Many times, after a game I thought of my grandfather and believed he would certainly have been proud of me.  

Moral: Stuff that looks easy, only becomes easy with hard work and practice andcmost important – Always keep your eye on the ball!