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A recent radio folk music program was built around the theme "Play Ball!" The songs played in that hour were varied, except in quality (they were all great!), but as a group, they reminded me of times in my childhood when baseball was especially important to me.
Although my friends think I'm kidding when I say I am (or was) a champion athlete, it is true that I have vivid memories of athletic moments of fulfillment and achievement in sports. Yes, even me. Most of these memories come from childhood, and not all - but most - come from baseball.
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But there were several other yards not many blocks away where sometimes larger games, involving maybe six or eight of us, would break out from time to time. I used to roam around a lot in those days, often on my bike (I guess), and I would always join in the games I came across.
One of these larger yards was at the home of a girl in my school class. Her older brother - a big guy - had shown up a few times to play with the rest of us, and he must have suggested we sometimes use his front yard... which we did from time time, whether H----- was there or not!
Another, which I remember the best, was at my closest childhood friend's house, A----'s backyard. A---- and I were in the same class, not only the same grade, every year from first grade ... gosh, I think, all the way through sixth grade. We often worked jointly on school projects. I remember making crayon drawings together, for instance, which we signed jointly with a pseudonym we made out of a combination of our two names. In about the fourth grade, our teacher adopted a new teaching technique of making "block assignments" in math and English. On the first school day of the month, Mrs. V----- would tell us in the afternoon what assignments in our textbooks we would have to complete by the end of the month. She would set aside a portion of every day, then, when we were expected to work independently on the assignments one by one.
Right away, without talking about it, A---- and I began to race to see who could finish the whole month's assignments first. After a couple of months, on the second day of the month, when Mrs. V----- said, "Take out your English books and work for 30 minutes on this month's assignments," A---- or I raised his hand and said, "Miz. V, I've finished them all."
That became the routine for a small group of us. The first time or two it happened, A---- and I were sent to the Principal's office where we helped out by sorting papers, or running the mimeo machine, or something else. Then, we got shipped up to the library, where there were more little tasks to do than in the office, and eventually - darn it - to just do some free reading, assuming we could stay out of the way of the classes formally sent to the library for teaching or research.
Sometimes, probably late in the month, there was a whole group of us who went to the auditorium where we worked up a little play. We started a little class newsletter.
Anyway, A---- and I shared a lot of time together in those days.
A----'s house had a bigger backyard than the rest of us had, without any swings or other junk. It was up a couple of steps from the patio next to the house. We played football up there, after choosing up sides. We played catch with a baseball, maybe with as many as four of us, but as we got stronger we couldn't bat without endangering the surrounding houses.
So, we played most of our pick-up neighborhood baseball games in the street. As a general memory, all those neighborhood games remain among my fondest childhood reminiscences ... but not the source of any special or specific memories.
2
Then, when I was about eight I think, Mother signed me up to play for a little league team, D-------'s Pet Shop. This was hardball, the best kind. I remember the first day as Mom took me to the shabby little playground where we were scheduled to practice and play. It was Texas after all, and the baseball diamond was all just dirt. I was assigned to play shortstop.
We won just about all our games that season, all pitched by this really big guy named Walter Dollar. Nobody in our humble league could hit that guy. As long as our team scored once or twice, we had the win all sewed up. I think that as a hitter, frankly, I was too shy to really swing. I got lots of walks, since most of the pitchers couldn't throw strikes even with the most generous of umpires. I could run pretty well too, and quite often I would come around to score.
In the field, I always tried to look competent and confident. The Yankee shortstop Phil Rizutto was my hero, and I imitated his bouncing around so it would look as though I could spring quickly to either side (as he proved daily he could actually do). I kept up the chatter too, as the coach always reminded us: "Come, Dollar. Come on, baby. Let's go, let's go..." And I'd rap my fist into my glove from time to time. But the thing is, our pitcher struck out almost everybody, except for those who managed to hit fly balls to the outfield. All our best fielders were sent to the outfield.
Then one day, late in the season, in a close game, one kid got lucky and hammered a line drive off Walter straight out toward centerfield. I was just jumping that way and instinctively reached for the ball whistling past. I still remember exactly how that line drive felt as it smacked into the sweet spot of my black Phil Rizutto glove. Everybody on our team cheered. We had won the game. "Great catch, 'Byron,'" they said. Someone clapped me on the back as I modestly trotted in.
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The next week we learned we had won the league championship, and Walter Dollar and I had been selected for the all-star game. In a whole season, I'd gotten maybe one or two hits, plus a lot of walks ... but with only a couple of chances, my fielding percentage was 100%. Anyway, somehow they chose me.
I didn't start the All-Star game (Walter did), but I was sent in after a couple of innings. I don't remember who won, but we played on a beautiful green lawn with colorful billboard fences - not the rusty old chain-link fence D-----'s Pet Shop had to live with - and even a real grandstand.
I had one chance in the field. There was a runner coming up from first when the hard grounder came to me. The Rizutto glove scooped it up. The second baseman had run over to cover second, which would never have happened on our team. I tossed him the ball underhand - out one - and he turned and threw it hard, right on the money, to first - double play!
Another big cheer, this time from the grandstand too. The second baseman coolly acknowledged me with a nod.
But the still more precious memory came from the plate. I came up with a runner on first. I was hoping for a walk but realized that this all-star pitcher could probably throw strikes... maybe like Walter Dollar. I don't know why - perhaps inspired by the fans or the beautiful ballpark - but I swung hard at the very first pitch, connected squarely, and knocked a clean single over the shortstop's head. Yes! I got a hit in the All-Star game!
4
Next stop: junior high. The seventh grade was intimidating for a shy, rather short and tubby youngster. I knew a lot of people, I suppose, but we were all taking a lot of courses with a different mix of children in each one and of course a lot of different teachers. Lunchtime was especially scary. I was still bringing a sandwich from home, but there was no natural fit for me to sit with someone. So I just wolfed down my peanut-butter, pressed-ham, limp-bacon, or tongue sandwich and got outside as soon as I could.
There was always a pick-up game of softball going on in one corner of the playground. I didn't know a soul who was playing, but I screwed up my courage and wandered to an empty spot in the outfield, left center. There was always a different number of various players, and there were no teams. Instead, the ones out to play first chose whether they would be one of the players waiting around to bat; maybe there was an informal limit of four hitters at a time. Two of the early-comers got to choose to pitch and catch too. The rest of the fielders just scattered more or less randomly around.
If a hitter struck out or hit a ground out, then the catcher took his or her place in the batting order and the pitcher went in to catch. I don't remember how the next pitcher was selected. It certainly was never going to be me! Now, if the batter hit a fly ball that somebody caught, then that fielder would take his place right then and hit next.
(By the way, yes girls did sometimes - rarely - play lunchtime softball.)
Well, one day I was hiding way out in my regular spot in left center field. Somebody hit one high and deep in my general direction. It seemed like it was never going to come down. I was - of course - ready to defer to anyone who wanted to yell, "I got it! I got it!" But no one did. There was a pretty strong code that you didn't hog someone else's ball, on the ground or in the air.
Anyway, I realized it was up to me. I saw it all the way; I wasn't particularly nervous; and sure enough at the right time, I reached up and ... Sock! it smacked into my hands, and I got it!
By this time, the other regular players all knew me by sight but they didn't know my name. But they gave a little cheer anyway, and called out, "Nice catch" and "Way to go" and like that. Someone said as I threw the ball in toward the pitcher, "You're up!"
I don't know if I took my turn or not that day. But by the next day, I was looked upon as the guy in the outfield who could catch the long, high ones. Maybe once a week or so, I'd snare another one. It came easily. But by the second time, instead of heading up to bat, I'd point at one of the other guys who seemed to want to, to take my place at bat. No one seemed to realize I was just chicken. They treated me as though I was generous.
5
Flash forward to high school: our church league basketball team even went to the state championships in Dallas my junior year. I was a defensive and passing guard, not known (if any of us could be said to be "known") for offense... basically my baseball credentials, I guess. But in our second game, which we lost, I shot five times and scored four times for a new career high.
In the spring that year, I was playing second base in the softball church-league. Someone older than I, or at least better, was already shortstop. (I kept my Rizutto glove.) Our great rivals were the perennial champions form First ________ Church downtown. They had the great keystone combination of Ronnie Cartlege and John Bohn. Yes, Bohn and Cartlege!
I don't think I made many errors; I'd probably remember that. And I must have even been okay at bat, and I was still fast on the base paths. Stealing second was easier in that league than in little league because many church-league catchers couldn't catch a pitch and then haul back and throw accurately to second without bouncing the ball at least once. And when they did, there was a good chance the second baseman and shortstop would compete either to catch the ball and tag the runner, or - just as likely - defer to the other player... in which case the throw would dribble out into centerfield.
I was a big threat to steal second when I did manage to get on... But I wouldn't dare try it against the fabled Bohn and Cartlege. Well, the memorable moment came in a game against First ________, with our team in the field. Either Ronnie (whom I knew slightly even though he was a year ahead of me at school) or John came up to bat. I was doing my dancing around and keeping the chatter going.
The hitter got to first either with a single to the outfield or with a walk (rare in church league, the fellowship leaders being the umpires). Ronnie was one of the fastest kids in the league, but our catcher Bob was just about the best catcher in the whole league. He was built like Yogi Berra no less. And besides that, our shortstop and I knew that when the batter hit right-handed, the second baseman covered the bag in case of a steal.
Sure enough, the runner took off. I danced over to second. Bob threw a perfect hard one, a real clothes-line. It socked into my glove, and Ronnie or John slid right into my tag. Wow! Cheers for that one too.
In the car on the way home, Bob the catcher said quietly to me, "I didn't know if you could catch it, 'Byron.'" But I did.
6
Those are my most special baseball moments from childhood. I had many somewhat more routine ones. I listened to many big league games on the radio, for instance. Also, during various family vacations, when my Dad would go to a professional conference and take the rest of us along, I got to go to games with the Chicago Cubs (with U of Texas grad Randy Jackson), the St. Louis Browns (with a giant and a dwarf), and one play-off in Ebbetts Field between the Dodgers and the Giants.
Also, a sportswriter for the local newspaper rather often took me out to a minor league ballpark, Disch Field, to keep the scorecard for him at Austin Pioneer games. On the nights when they were out of town, I sometimes listened to them on the radio; it took me a couple of years to realize that the crowd noise was always the same and that the clacking in the background was a teletype machine. The announcer was in reality in an Austin studio reading the play-by-play via teletype and trying to maintain the illusion that he was at the game.
Those are great baseball memories too, but did not bring any really special moments.
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