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March 1st, 2016
When my daughters were teenagers, they both enjoyed playing in the fast- and slow-pitch softball leagues that are so popular in northern West Virginia. I’m sure my granddaughters will do the same. It was certainly good for them--keeping them active and teaching them important lessons in sportsmanship, teamwork and commitment.
But when I was growing up, these kinds of leagues were almost nonexistent. That’s why sandlot ball helped to fill the gap.
My best friend had a large, open field next to his house where we played ball. I say “open,” but that’s not exactly true. There was an apple tree in center field. There was also a driveway that cut its way through almost all of left field. But everybody quickly adjusted to these obstacles. Why? Because your survival depending on avoiding low hanging branches and keeping your footing when you stepped onto the asphalt.
There were plenty of kids in the neighborhood who enjoyed getting together for ball games. We would play for hours and hours in the summertime. Most days we wouldn’t leave until sunset. Then we would grab our bikes and head home, looking forward to another game the next day.
For many years, I was the catcher. I don’t think it had anything to do with my talent. I owned a catcher’s mitt, and as far as everybody else was concerned that meant I was fully qualified. Home plate was only a few yards away from the garden that was faithfully planted and cared for every year by my best friend’s dad. What he didn’t know was that I spent a lot of time in his garden. Ostensibly I was looking for baseballs that had been foul tipped and found their way into all of the greenery. But inevitably I would find myself in the strawberry patch, sampling handfuls of the choices berries as I searched in vain for the missing ball. Home grown strawberries are the best!
There were other adventures in store for us. To the left of our sandlot was a pasture. Needless to say, there were plenty of foul balls that veered left and ended up in the pasture. As you probably guessed, the pasture wasn’t empty. Thankfully, it was only used by milk cows. But the patties they left behind made every trip into the pasture fraught with danger. Occasionally, one of the cows would get hit with a ball, but nothing more would come of it than a startled cow and a loud, confused “moo.” The worst thing was when you heard a loud, sloppy, “splat” when the ball hit the ground. Then you knew somebody was going to get stuck with ball cleaning duty!
As we grew bigger and stronger, we soon began to outgrow our sandlot. Rather than quitting, we decided to switch from baseball to softball. That way we couldn’t hit the ball quite so far. It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’ll admit that when we played baseball I was a pretty lousy hitter. Striking me out wasn’t really rocket science--two fast balls, followed by a curve ball. That’s all it took. But when we switched to slow-pitch softball I found my groove. I seemed to have a knack for putting the ball exactly where I wanted, and I could even hit for power. We managed to squeeze several more years of play out of the old sandlot, and began dreaming of the big leagues.
Then came that fateful day in the summer of ’77. For reasons I can’t remember, we decided it would be a good idea to switch back for the day so we could play a game of baseball. I was playing in the outfield, and somebody hit a high, high fly ball. Too high. It would never had gotten so high if we had been playing softball. But there it was, and I ran as I hard as I could to get under it. Alas, another fielder was running under it too. We collided, and I broke the tibia in my right leg. Everybody swears they could hear the snap of my bone breaking. I honestly don’t remember. I just collapsed. Like a brave young lad, I tried to “walk it off.” But my leg literally wouldn’t hold the weight and I fell back to the ground.
I know this sounds like a sad ending to my story, but kids see things differently. Here’s what I actually remember about the whole ordeal. I was carried off the field to my best friend’s back porch. While I waited for somebody to pick me up, my best friend’s mom brought out a tall glass of iced tea and homemade (yes, that’s right, homemade) donuts that she had just finished making in the deep fryer. I don’t have any memory of the pain or disappointment I may have felt. What I do remember is being surrounded by good friends and eating home-cooked delicacies that couldn’t be beat.
Years later I played in a men’s league and had some exciting experiences, especially in tournament play. But what I remember best is the sandlot. That’s where friendships were forged and a young boy grew up. That’s where lasting memories were made. I still miss it, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything!
