Major League in Every Respect!

           April.

           It meant one thing to us down at the end of Stonewall Street.

           Baseball!

           We’d take about six throws and get the game started. We didn’t need much spring training in 1956. We played in the open field across the street. Or over by Bethel College. Or in Paul David Campbell’s back yard. Or out by the pajama factory. We didn’t mind a few tacks and the black electrician tape holding the bat together. The ball wasn’t perfectly white. We didn’t bother with uniforms, umpires or official scorers. We came to play!

           I was blessed to have an older brother. And he was blessed with great friends. And they took pity on the tag-a-long little brother. That’s how I first got in the game! I wasn’t actually chosen, mind you. When Nicky Joe or Kenny’s team was one short, Jackie or Paul David would say, “take Kesley, he can play right field”.

           I patrolled my assigned spot like my life depended on it! I heard every sound. I leaned in on every pitch. I knew Bobby C. liked to pull the ball. I’d move a couple of steps to my right. Jackie could hit to all fields and Leon swung from the heels. I played Jack straight-a-way and backed up a smidge when Leon was up. I can still smell the mix of clover, sweat and Neats Foot oil. I’d pull my cap bill down low, spit in my Revelation model glove and pretend to be Bill Virdon, patrolling the outfield for our beloved St. Louis Cardinals.

           I wasn’t offended when all the fielders moved in when I stepped to the plate. And it didn’t bother me when the pitcher “took a little off” to give me a good chance to make contact. Listen, Einstein didn’t concentrate as hard when he was figuring on that Relativity thing! You just think Spartacus was bearing down against those Romans! I struck out a lot. And I hit a bunch of three hoppers right at the second baseman.

           But folks, I was in the game!

           You will never know how important that still is to me as I look back on it from half a century away. And I could care less about the “life lessons” of sportsmanship, team work, learning to share, give and take, etc. Listen, you try to block Bobby C. by sticking a foot out as he rounded third base on John Ed’s double up the right field alley and he’d show you some “sportsmanship”! He’d knock you out to the middle of Stonewall Street! And then glare menacing-like at you for the rest of the afternoon! I’ve seen some great fights break out over a close call at second. I’ve seen brothers not speak to brothers. I’ve seen Hatfield/McCoy type feuds born over who “got to be” Stan Musial for the day. Shoot, I’ve seen competitive tempers flare when we were choosing up sides. 

           We played for the pure joy of the game. The fun of running down a long fly; the thrill of a great hook slide; the sound when the bat made that perfect contact with the ball; the inward leap of your little heart when Bobby or Nick or one of the older guys nodded approval over your play. I’m telling you, the wind never felt so fresh; the sun never as bright; the sky so tall. There is nothing quite as exhilarating in life as calling time out and jogging back across the diamond to pick up your cap after you have drilled a triple off of Paul David’s garage.

           The unlearned would think it silly. To still be in love with a child’s game. But the hours we spent, the joys we shared, the bonds we formed….. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t recall one of those guys…… 

           I grew with the game. I can remember when they waved me in from the outfield to play short stop. A rite of passage took place. As the years went by I moved up in the batting order. I saw the left fielder ease back as I knocked the dirt off my tennis shoes. And I never looked up the mild spring morning behind the college when Larry Blackburn chose me with the first pick. But my heart did!

           April marks the beginning of another major league baseball season. I’ll watch some games. I will still pull for the St. Louis Cardinals. And against the New York Yankees. I will check the stats sheets to see if Albert Pujois is leading the league in homers and RBIs. But a little of the professional side is getting hard to take. I’m tired of batters stepping to the plate wearing more armor than Sir Lancelot. Pitchers who take forever to let go of the ball drive me nuts. Owners try to buy winners. Sportswriters have an unbelievable urge to tell us which players are cheating on their wives, who is carrying a gun or who is on steroids. And I shake my head over the third string utility player who is holding out for six million bucks.

           Hey, if Ricky Gene or Buddy had put some kind of rags around his arm for protection David Paschall would have drilled him right up side the head! If the pitcher didn’t keep the game moving, we’d find someone who wasn’t afraid to throw it! They ought to make team owners choose up sides each year. And we didn’t care who Bobby C. was dating away from the park. We all carried guns. Our steroids were a bowl of Wheaties and a glass of milk. And it wasn’t (as Shoeless Joe Jackson uttered in Field of Dreams) “I would have played for nothing”, we DID play for nothing!

           We all dreamed for years of getting to the big leagues one day……and come to find out, we were already there!

                   Let’s Play Two,

                          Kes