While watching a youth recreation league baseball game (14 and under age group) a couple nights ago, my wife and I made several observations. The evening weather was perfect and we were comfortably seated along the third base line in my truck. In between gobbles of tater tots and spoonfuls of a fried ice cream shake (my new favorite flavor), I regaled her with stories of my baseball career that was played in this very same park, on this very same field. I commented how everything pretty much looked the same. The exception being how neatly the actual diamond is now manicured. Kudos to our city rec baseball director, Joel Webb.
I explained to her how the light poles and fixtures were most assuredly the same ones I played under as an early teen. Thankfully, we are replacing and upgrading to an LED system this budget year. The current dugouts are ground-level entry. In my day, they were the subterranean-style dugouts. The chainlink metal backstop looks to be the same one. It has held up quite nicely.
This is the field where I dreamt big dreams. When I was on the mound, I was Jim Palmer of my favorite Baltimore Orioles. When I played left field, I was Carl Yastrzemski of the Red Sox. At first base, I was Boog Powell, another Oriole All-Star. On the occasion I played shortstop, I was Mark Belanger, yet another Oriole player. I had a better-than-average arm for speed from the pitching mound. Distance throws from the outfield were easy for me. Even though I had the legs of a chicken, I could not run like one. I don’t think I ever managed to steal a base. With a bat in my hands, I was no threat at all. Despite being the tallest kid on the team, when I stepped into the batter’s box, the pitcher would turn and yell to the outfield: “ Move up, play shallow, he can’t hit!”. Words sure can hurt a fella at that age.
Cindy humored my boasting of youth and asked me what number I wore on my uniform shirt. I smirked as I sardonically answered her, “I was always number 15”. The tone in my voice made her burst out in laughter. “I thought for sure you would have the number 24, your basketball number and favorite”. If we had been given a choice, I absolutely would have picked the 24. Why? Because Willie Mays and Craig Thomas wore the 24, duh!
We didn’t have the full uniform of pants, shirts and hats the kids now wear. We only had t-shirts printed with the business sponsor who had graciously donated funds to the program. A number on the back corresponded to the size of the t-shirt. Therefore, the smallest kid on the team was always given #1 and the biggest kid was tossed the #15.
Most of the runs scored in that game we watched were due to errors of the unearned run variety. No home runs over the Kiwanis Club fence or doubles to the gap between left and center field. We watched dependable volunteer coaches spending their summer evenings waving kids around the bases. A high level of enthusiasm and love of the game was also very apparent. Prima facie evidence of their energy being how most of the kids slid into the base or home plate even when the danger of being tagged out was nowhere close. Dirt and grass stains on the pants mean you played hard, right?! We observed a wide variety of athleticism among the players. I will admit that in my amateur judgment, the best athlete on the field wore that number 1! He was quick on the basepath and made consistent solid contact with the bat.
We observed sportsmanship with plenty of high fives each inning and cheers for the opponents when the game concluded. Spectators and parents were all well-behaved and supportive as well. I was proud of my community members, my park facilities, and the members of both teams. The only thing missing is a scoreboard. Here is where I make a shameless, unapologetic plea for some generous, baseball-fan-owned business entity to contact me about a donation to the program. We will splash your name all over the field for the right amount of money!
During that magical 14th summer of 1975, my team won the league championship. Sponsored by a great, steady Preston business of that day: Glen Call Construction. Sadly, that was my last official season of playing organized baseball. Preston City did not sponsor an American Legion team at the time so the next applicable level would have been the high school team. But the program was scrapped that year in order to provide budget funds for the implementation of Title IX. I kind of resented girls for a while because of that, but got over it eventually. My field of dreams is still there and alive. The dreams have changed for me. But I bet not for some of those ballplayers I watched the other evening.
To the city maintenance workers who mow the grass, I say thank you! To each and every young boy and girl participating in our recreation leagues, to the umpires, volunteer coaches and parent snack providers, who reflect the spirit of the game and the dreams, I say, play ball, and job well done!
(0) comments
Welcome to the discussion.
Log In