Looking through a file of newspaper clippings that I saved for about 60+ years I found one that reminded me of a memory that friends still won't let me forget!
For years, since I started to play organized sports, I hope one day to have my name in a Millville Republican headline on the sports page. But as Ben Franklin once said, (when in doubt I always credit the saying to Ben Franklin), “opportunity must be taken at its flood.” And no opportunities had flooded for me in years. Of course, I started playing sports fairly late growing up - and I hadn’t much practice yet. When I went out for Little League baseball, I was just at the oldest age limit – 9. Playing baseball never interested me until my grandmother Ethel told me how much my grandfather loved to play first base. I was now committed to play first base and also to go to the try-outs a week away. But I had never batted a ball - only in my dreams. However, mom and I played catch many nights after dinner – but playing catch with your mom was not going to get me ready for a game against kids who had been playing for a couple of years. (I never "went out", as they say, for sports because I was
“chubby” - so I was convinced that I was never going to play well.)
But this year I was determined to go out so Mom took me to the Bpb’s Sports Center Store to buy me my first baseball glove. And I’ll never forget the one I picked – a Ted Williams Pro model. Being left handed it was the only glove (for a southpaw as they say) in stock in the store.
Mr. Bob urged me to “break in” my glove, which was really too big and stiff as a board – he gave me a small can of linseed oil. “The tried and true secret method used by all the pros”, he said. “Ya got to form a pocket, Cal. Punch your fist in it as much as you can…before you go to bed put a baseball in that pocket; wrap the glove around it and tie it tight with string. That’ll get it started but only playing with it a lot will get it right.” So, mom bought me an official Little League baseball too.
I punched, oiled and my glove at least an hour a day for a week – but it still wasn’t easy to bend. My fingers weren’t long enough to fill the glove, but this was my “mitt” and I was determined to be a good player that would make my grandfather (who I never met, but that’s another story) proud.
On try-out night I reported to the high school and found a bunch of yelling, tossing and running kids, and most all much younger than me. (Unlike today where everybody gets to play, one had to “make” a team. The dad/managers of the 6 teams were all there to look over the “rookies” and they would try to pick the “best” kids to join their sons who always “made” the team. They all were carrying clip boards and had whistles around their necks. One was even wearing baseball “knickers”.
One coach blew a whistle and we kids got quiet. He explained that tonight some kids would “make a Major Little League” team and all the rest would all have a chance to learn and polish their skills on a “Farm League” team. (This was dreaded by every kid there since one only got a tee-shirt and matching hat, while the big leaguers got to wear real uniforms. “Tonight, we were going to run, play catch and bat and will get 10 swings.”
And so, it began. I was a nervous wreck as I waited in my turn. (Running was the easy one. Catching I could do because of my hours of practice with mom. But hitting would be the test - would be my first time. I watched the other guys; most picked up some dirt and rubbed it on their hands which I assumed would help them hit better; tugged on their caps; took a couple practice swings; and then tapped the plate a couple of times. This I had seen on TV many times and would make it my ritual too. And before I knew it – it was my time to bat. I didn’t do any of the stuff I had seen the others do except tug my well worn official Phillies baseball cap. A father/coach was on the mound. He tossed the ball and it whizzed by me into the catcher’s mitt with a pop. And I now understood why the game is called “hard ball.” The next pitch hit the ground but I swung at it anyhow and tried to hit it on the bounce. The next was very high and I jumped as high as I could taking a swat at the ball at least five feet above the strike zone and missed it and fell in the dirt. One of the coaches yelled “time out” and came around the backstop. he asked my name and then said, “Cal, the idea is to wait until the pitcher throws a ball where you can hit it. You don’t need to chase them!” “Oh”, was all I could say in return – I could feel my face turning red.
My batting average that night - out of the 10 pitches I hit one grounder; 2 foul balls and missed all the rest by a mile. After all the tryout tests were done the coaches huddled, looked at their clipboards and then barked out the names of the players picked to line up behind them. I wasn't called. I would be playing for a farm league team and was told to come to our first practice on Saturday where we would be divided into teams. That first practice I was put on the Chubb’s Insurance team. Of all the sponsors this was the worst of all the teams. I wanted to be on the Elks or Moose - But Chubbs!
At our first of three a week practices Coach Jim asked me what position I would like to play. I said shortstop because Granny Hamner was my favorite on the Phillies. Coach said that left handers rarely played shortstop or second base – he suggested first base (where I knew from watching the Phillies was where the big, slow players usually ended up.) But I wasn’t daunted by this – I intended to be the best first basemen I could be.
Each day I tossed a tennis ball against a wall of my house. Fielding grounders, diving for pop ups and playing pretend “Phillies games”. After each practice I think I got better. I even started to hit the ball. (Unlike my golf game much later, practice makes one better at baseball) I wrote headlines in my notebook, “Iszard Hits Homer…Iszard Makes Great Play…Iszard Saves Game.”
The season started and every game I did get better. The only downside was I had to bring my birth certificate to each game because nobody believed that my age because of my size and my bat was inspected too. Mom had bought me a Louie-vile Slugger because all the bats the team had were too small for me. I towered over all the other players.
After a few games I got the hang of hitting – waiting for “my” pitch was the secret. My average climbed as singles turned to doubles and then triples. My hero had always been Babe Ruth. Matter of fact, I always asked for the number 3 for all my uniforms from Little League to the varsity high school team. I would practice the Babe’s funny jog as he rounded the bases after another towering homer. I was determined to “park one” as they said on the radio
And then my chance came. At the midpoint in our season, playing against the league’s leading team, with a thunder storm threatening, I came to the plate with the bases loaded and we were down by one in the bottom of the last inning. I was tempted to point to center field – but thought better of it. The first pitch was a ball outside. The next, a strike right down the middle I watched go in the glove. I stepped out of the box. Picked up some dirt and rubbed my hands together for the first time in my baseball career and stepped back in tapping my bat on the plate. The next pitch I hit a soaring fly ball that not only left the field, it went clear over the football stands that were adjacent to our center field. We won as I rounded the diamond “Ruth-Style” and met our players and coach at the plate for a back- slapping celebration. We were now in first place! I couldn’t wait until the next evening to read the local paper and finally see my name in the headline about our big win.
Thwack – the next day our paperboy hit our front door with the Daily Republican right before dinner. I ripped off the rubber band and went immediately to the back page. At the bottom, below the “real baseball” game results was a small article and our box score. The headline read – “ISBAND SMASHES WALK-OFF GRAND SLAM!”
After all the work…practice…and waiting for my own headline, they spelled my name wrong – a first of many ironies to come in my life. Sometime things that seem so near and are actually so far away - in many ways.
