| Sandlot Baseball |
The following is adapted from a letter sent to me recently by a very good friend of mine from Kentucky, as a response to a question from me asking him what baseball was like "back in the day" (he's in his 60's!). He has kindly let me use the letter in the News & Views section to try and explain and convey it across a little bit. (Purely for reasons of privacy, I haven't posted his name up here.)
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Sandlot baseball during the period of 1959 to 1962 was so exciting, I can visualize the action even today. On any given summer day on he playgrounds of Rosary Catholic, North Side Elementary, South Side Elementary or 10th Street Park; baseball was being played. It didn’t matter your talent level, all comers were welcome. Even though teams normally consisted of nine per squad, and teams loved to host games - but if no opponent showed up, teams either practiced amongst themselves (an "inter-squad game, if you will) or rode bikes across town to another playing field seeking games. I remember players coming from near and far looking for a chance to play the “American game of summer” - baseball was exciting, the players were many in number, and the games are remembered as vividly today as they were when we played.
The formative years between '59 and '62 had a great impact on our neighborhood; the south side of Paducah, from 11th Street east right across to 7th Street and Washington North, and way down to Jones Street South. Growing up on this side of town was a treasure for me. There were so many children living in this area, a triangle between Lincoln High School down the street from our home, the Catholic school just beyond, and the Lincoln Court housing projects just over the hill. Those years were my early teen years, and along with my schoolfriends we were full of energy. Nothing could keep us in the house on a day without rain. Televisions were sparse, but the tube wasn’t even a match for the local ballgames. The lessons we learned on the ball field, making out as our favorite players, led many to athletic prowess in high school and college - I won't namedrop, but I have a few old friends from those days that got pretty far in the professional organization, and a dozen more that could have given a break or two somewhere along the line.
Rosary Catholic and Lincoln High were the 8th street and Project players' self-proclaimed home fields. Our team was composed of a number between seven and twelve, depending on job responsibilities for a particular day. For example, many of us had younger siblings that we babysat during the day, or were allocated chores such as cutting the grass, cleaning the house, or simply sitting indoors as punishment from NOT doing those particular jobs. The age group of our local teams was as low as eight, with the elders being as old as fifteen - and we not only ranged age-wise, but size-wise as well. “Big” Bill, all 200 pounds of him, was unsurprisingly the largest, and “Skinny” Howard was the slightest. In choosing teams the best players were chosen first and as the numbers dwindled, usually the same player was chosen last. That was a player who no one wanted, but was necessary to complete a squad. In some instances however, that player had to go find another player so he would get the opportunity to play himself. The fascinating thing, however, was to see the last player chosen at the beginning of summer evolve into one who moved up the social "totem pole" of baseball, while others slid down. To me that was what was so wonderful about baseball - no shape, size or look determined a good baseball player at our ages. Many times someone was projected as a good player because he had a good glove, could run fast, throw a long way, or knew every players' name in the Major Leagues. It didn’t matter that that kid might not have a clue as to how to hit, catch or throw to the right base. But time would find that player out.
After our selection of teams, games usually lasted until someone had to go home for lunch, which gave us our first break. The second break would come whenever our parents were due home from work, and this case ended many games for the day. Not always did supper mean the end of a game; for there were times the games were so competitive they were just continued on and on until nightfall. By the time dusk prevailed someone usually was determined a winner...eventually. Somehow. Without a scorekeeper, many games were disputed because not everyone’s integrity was as good as another’s in counting runs. There were games that, during a break, players from another area were recruited to play instead of the not-so-good on a losing team. This method became a favourite tactic for all teams, including games involving one area of town against another. Players would then become associated with others who wanted to play for another team. There were also players who visited for the summer who just wanted to play where they felt welcome, and not particularly in the area where they resided. This was extra nice when they were particularly talented.
Sandlot baseball was good competition, and some of the best exercise you could get at our age. Teammates became like family during the summer, eating at one another’s home or sometimes spending the night. When this happened we’d throw into the late hours of the hot summer nights under the street lights, taking on the names of our favorite pitchers - Don Newcombe, Warren Spahn, Juan Marichal, Ferguson Jenkins or Bob Gibson - as we threw a ball back and forth for hours on end. When hitting it was always the bottom of the ninth with two on, two outs and your team down by two. Of course you know the pitch you hit would be “way back”, as Dizzy Dean would say, and “its outta here folks!” to win the game.
The next day on the field it was the real thing. My favorite ball field was Lincoln High School, because the field was spacious down the right-field line, and my father - who coached a talented ball team of college players - had shown me how to "pull" the ball in that direction. Also, this was the field the older players used, so when we had the opportunity to play there it somehow made us seem bigger. I remember one game in particular, when our opponents were the “Mitchell brothers,” a family of boys - nine in all - who attended the Catholic school. Those guys rarely played anywhere other than Rosary, but this particular day we’d coaxed them into playing at Lincoln. Down several runs, we rallied to beat them, then almost had to fight to get home. One of their brothers, Ralph, would usually umpire our games, and for the most part did a good job. But one day on their home field I felt as though Ralph had given me a bad call. I began throwing those little white rocks at him standing behind the pitcher’s mound. One of the rocks seemed to have eyes and it zoomed in on Ralph’s triple-thick glasses, and with a loud "ping" broke his right lens into little pieces. He looked down at his glasses in his hand and said some words to me (which I can’t repeat), then came towards the players on the sideline. Trying to keep my composure was out of the question as “Big Ralph” came toward us, and I took off across the turf even before he knew who had done the foul deed. My grandmother’s house was just across the alley and off I went to get there.
With Ralph right on my heels I jumped the fence, ran to the porch, into the house and in the bathroom to lock the door. Outside you could hear the commotion, as Ralph pleaded his case for those glasses he said cost over $100. Dee Dee Mama got him settled down, then called me out. She asked me, “did you break his glasses?” I answered of course, “No.” She looked at me with The Look, and then I stammered, “Well...you...see...what happened was...” to which she said "I’ll tell his mother when she gets home and she’ll call your mother to get this mess taken care of". The business was taken care of within weeks, but I didn't get to play another sandlot game for almost a month. That wasn't even the worst part - Ralph Mitchell chased me everywhere I went for at least the next six months. And even when he wasn’t chasing me, someone would scream out “Here comes Ralph!” and I was gone in seconds; it didn’t matter whether he was in the vicinity or not.
Things like that happened; broken glasses, broken bones, fights, cuts, and forever broken windows on cars, buildings and homes. Sandlot baseball was our way of passing the summer away doing something that meant more to us than sitting home watching television, reading or lying around on our asses. It was THE thing to do, and for that three-year period there were hundreds of games played. Baseball was the ONLY thing to do for us back then, and if you didn’t do it you were considered someone who was a little "weird".
Oh, how times have changed...but the boys of summer to this day can pass by one of our old playing fields and a deluge of emotions and flashbacks pop into our minds. It was a wonderful time - and to us, "sandlot baseball” will never be the same.
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Luke Zagorski, with help from a friend
lukezagorski@btinternet.com
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