A Diamond in the Rough

The old ballpark closed for good today.  I suppose 48 years is long enough but I sure hate to see it go.  We had some really good times at that ol’ ball yard.  My, time does fly because it seems only yesterday that my friends (imaginary and real) and I graced this magical field – which was actually the front yard of my childhood home.

A worn circle of hard packed dirt near the front porch served as home plate, a board nailed into the ground was the pitching rubber.  First and third base were tall maple trees that graced the infield with glorious shade.  Whatever tossed in that general direction became the second base bag.  It was usually my sister’s red softball glove which no self-respecting future major leaguer would use.  Beyond the yard (infield), the road in front of our home was the warning track and tall weeds beyond the road were home run territory.  We spent a lot of time looking for lost balls in that tall grass.

We lived too far in the country to field a full team.  Jeff Webb, Dennis Craig, Terry Henderson and I were a typical line-up but what we lacked in numbers we made up for in creativity.  A pitcher, a batter, a second baseman and a right-fielder were all we needed.  No first baseman necessary as a solid peg that nailed the maple tree prior to the runner’s arrival was a definite out.  Of course, we batted left-handed and used ghost runners.  We played baseball but it was just as often a tape ball, a rubber ball, a wiffle ball, a tennis ball or anything else we could afford or find.  If it was round – we hit it.  Our field was never short on competition, intensity and laughter.  Every unique batting style had to be imitated.  Our favorites were the same as yours – Willie Stargell and Joe Morgan. 

Anything hit to the left side was an automatic out.  This rule was practical on two fronts – there were no players on the left side and Dad’s truck was often parked in that direction.  Our bullpen literally featured a live bull as foul territory was indeed the cow pasture that bordered our yard.  If a flyball happened to land on our mailbox on the far side of the road (where my prized Sporting News arrived once a week) – it was an automatic grand slam no matter how many were on base.  The Juice Box in Houston did not invent quirkiness.

Often it was just me and my Saturday routine.  The morning was reserved for cutting the grass.  Every blade had to be perfect, every base line straight and cross cuts whenever time permitted.  After lunch, in the hot part of the day, I retired to the living room with a frosty cold 16 ounce Pepsi in the bottle, fresh from Mom’s Saturday visit to Whipple’s Food Market in town.  There, with scorecard in hand, I flipped the three channels on the old black and white until I found the NBC Game of the Week with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek.  The game was not to be missed.  It was, after all, it really was the (only) game of the week.

Following the game, I was back in the front yard to play my own home version of MLB.  Ever play baseball by yourself?  I did.  In my version of solitary front yard baseball, every out was played in a full nine inning game.  Fungo style, I would pitch my scuffed baseball in the air, take a cut with my Rawlings monogrammed bat and promptly place the ball exactly where I intended – a grounder to short, a single to right or a scorched double down the left field line.  Playing alone, the full field was in play.  The only problem was retrieving every ball I hit.  Did I say problem?  I meant to say opportunity.

Ever talk to yourself?  I did.  The walk or occasional jog to retrieve the ball was never a bother because that’s when I imitated Jack Buck play-by-play or Mike Shannon color commentary.  Yes, my siblings and parents thought I was crazy.  Sometimes I whispered under my breath to go unnoticed but usually I didn’t care because what I was doing was important – and fun.  I not only didn’t need others, I generally didn’t want them.  Yeah, I was a little strange.

I imagined all the best on my field.  Bonds (the Dad), Mays, McCovey and Marichal led the Giants into town (actually country).  Tom Seaver and the Miracle Mets played at my field as did Hammerin’ Hank, the Big Red Machine and The Lumber Company.  Jim Lonborg pitched there before he was a U.S. Senator.  Cito Gaston, Ralph Garr, The Toy Cannon, Maury Wills, Don Drysdale and a thousand others made appearances. 

Occasionally I hosted the all-star game just to bring in Killebrew, Carew, Reggie, Yaz, and Frank Howard from the inferior league.  When the leaves fell and World Series time rolled around, it was time for the Baltimore Orioles to visit – Frank, Brooks, Davey, Earl, Boog, Elrod, Belanger, Buford, Blair and the 20 game winners, Cuellar, Palmer, Dobson and McNally.

As a side note, few youngsters today would believe that I never missed a World Series game on television in that era.  It was not because I stayed up late, it was because all Series games were played in the afternoon and our school principal always rolled a giant black and white set into our classroom so all could watch.  Thank you, Mr. Evans.  I wonder what the girls in the class were thinking.

My team of choice was always the Cardinals as our Kentucky farm was in the heart of the St. Louis Cardinal Radio Network.  The 1970’s did not bring us championships but they did deliver excitement.  Teddy Sizemore taking a strike while Lou swiped another base, Gibby hitting home runs and pitching shutouts, Reitz scooping hot shots at third, The Calloway Kid going first to third and Reggie Smith with bat held high.  Ted Simmons and Joe Torre usually hit line drives into the gap.  Red was always cool as a cucumber on the bench.

My favorite opponent was the Cubs – Hundley, Banks, Beckert, Kessinger, Santo and Williams – Jenkins, Pappas, Holtzman and Hands on the mound.  The Cubs oddly struck out a lot in my games and the Cardinals always won – usually in dramatic fashion.  My Small Bear hatred goes way back. 

We broke a few windows, we lost a lot of balls, had a few arguments and occasionally even hit a passing car, truck or tractor but I have only good memories of the ol’ ball yard.  I’d pay a lot of money to be ten years old again and play till dark.

Truth be told, the ball park closed a long time ago.  It was about the time I discovered girls and cars.  College was to follow and the ballpark was empty – but never forgotten.  Mom and Dad turn 79 this year and it was finally time for them to move.  They seem happy in their new town home and I’m happy for them.  While my memories are grand, I bet theirs are better.  As we packed up a few remaining items at the old home place, I took a good long look at my old ball park.  I thought about cutting the grass one last time.  But I didn’t.

Yeah, they closed the old ball park today but maybe a new kid will move in and renovate.  But even if he doesn’t, my son and I are opening a new park at our home about 4 hours away – should be a lot of fun.