An American Dream

An American Dream

It’s been a long time, but I don’t really care. The Detroit Tigers are heading to the baseball playoffs this year. Again, I don’t really care. I don’t really care about professional baseball. It’s a dull and lifeless game in my opinion. I really haven’t cared much about baseball since the days when I was relegated to a recreation league team of misfits when I was 9 years old. I had thought I was hot stuff on the diamond after playing pepper with my father and my family in the backyard for years. When the time came for try-outs where kids got to show their stuff and then were placed on teams, I was placed on the hapless Cubs. Even our name was a losing name. All the professional Cubs ever had going for them was Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks. Other than that, they practiced annual futility. The Cubs were the third team in our sandlot group…a collection of hapless 9 year olds. The best kids from the try-outs were placed on the Cardinals. The next best players became the Mets, and then there was the rest. This took place in the time before political correctness and self-esteem were societal vocabulary. Talented kids were placed on powerful teams. Lousy kids were placed on lousy teams.

Finding a coach for the woeful Cubs was difficult, but my father stepped to the plate and volunteered. Now, my pop was a great coach. He knew the game and had the right perspective. He was an excellent teacher, and he managed to help improve everyone’s skill level and keep up our confidence despite our losing just about every game. Yet, even with my dad as coach, I could not crack the starting line-up. Instead, I wound up riding the pine, getting mop-up duty and playing the dreaded “Death Valley,” right field. This place was where sandlot coaches banished kids who weren’t very good. You could sometimes hide them there. I played second string right field on my father’s team.

Throughout that year, I never fielded a ball. However, I did get to bat a couple of times with no success. The last time I batted, I came to the plate with two outs and played smart ball. I realized that I couldn’t get a hit, so I watched the pitches carefully and drew a walk. Then, surprised, I followed my father’s orders and stole second. Speed was my one asset. Then I stole third. At that moment as I stood proudly on third base hearing the cheers of the adoring crowd for the first time in my life, my future balanced on a thread. A batter came to the plate... strike one. Strike two. Strike three…Inning over. My career in baseball was over. I realized at that point that I was second string on a third string team with my father as the coach. Pursuing a career in baseball was pointless. I was a loser in this sport. So I retired from baseball and really stopped caring about it for many years.

Oddly, later in life, I came to softball and discovered I had several talents: speed, slapping bat skills, and solid first baseman skills. I was also fearless in the Baptist church league in Charlottesville, Virginia. In one game, Preacher Dan (young pastor at the rival Baptist church) slapped a ball to our amazing semi-pro shortstop, Matthew Woodson. He scooped the ball and gave me a high hard throw up the first base line. Preacher Dan, one of the most competitive men I ever met, blew right through me-knocking me senseless and giving me a first class shinier. Preacher Dan was the guy who once slid into third base with his spikes up. My wife, our third base person, was none too pleased with Preacher Dan that day and let him have it with a verbal assault…but I digress (this piece will have lots of digression…follow me though…I might get to the point)…

I grew up loving baseball. In my family, we always looked forward to the Game of the Week on NBC. Those match-ups were always special. My first memory of professional baseball though was the 1964 World Series. I was only four years old, but I remember vividly Bob Gibson filling my black and white television screen. The power that man had when he delivered the ball to home plate was most amazing. Back in those days, World Series games were played during the day-time, and I remember my mother ironing clothes in our den in front of the television. Game 5 was a classic as I recall. I remember Gibson holding the powerful and famous Yankees (my favorite team) in check 2-0 when my favorite player, Tommy Tresh came to the plate. He belted a two run homer to tie the game. Then the Cards came back to win. Man, baseball was exciting in those days. I had no idea then just how much integration of the sport had energized it. Looking back, some of the best baseball was played during 1960’s.

Back in those days, fans could communicate with teams and ball players more personally. My sister Becky, always braver than the rest of us, decided to write to her favorite teams. So she wrote the Cardinals and the Yankees that 1964 season. In reply, they sent her glossy photos of the entire team and a personal letter. Somewhere in the family memorabilia, we still have the 1964 Cardinal and Yankee team photos. I grew to love those two teams, and I would flip through those pictures whenever I could steal a chance, dreaming dreams of being a major league player for them.

Back in those days, we would visit Florida on occasion to stay with my mother’s sister, Bets. She and her husband, Vernon, were rabid Detroit Tiger fans. The reason they loved the Tigers so much was because those Tigers played spring ball in their hometown, Lakeland, Florida. In 1967, we headed down to visit Aunt Bets over Easter break. I remember riding endless hours over dusty roads for a day and a half. Finally, we got there. Spring ball was in full swing with Bets and Vern enjoying every moment. Through their church they had cultivated many friendly relationships with the visiting baseball players. One player, Ron Swoboda of the Mets (St. Petersburg, Fla), was an especially good friend. I remember vaguely Aunt Bets entertaining Ron and his wife and two kids at her home while we were there. We cooked out and hung out around my aunt’s backyard pool. Later on that week-long trip, Ron delivered a batch of cracked bats for us. Included in the stash were bats from Ron, Clete Boyer, and Ken Boyer; along with a few pitcher bats (maybe a Tom Seaver?). Looking back I find it humorous that fielders had their names and numbers on their bats, while pitchers had generic “P” bats. My father, an engineer at GE and specialist in glues and adhesives, put these bats back together. I used to love using Ken Boyer’s old bat.

On that same trip, Aunt Bets and Uncle Vern treated us to two baseball games at Lakeland’s new Joker Marchant Stadium. The Yankees were in town, and I got to see my heroes play ball. Roger Maris had just been traded in the off-season, but Mickey was still there (probably hammered). Teen idol Joe Pepitone roamed the infield, and my hero, Tommy Tresh, master of the basket catch, played outfield. Of course Mel and Whitey were in the pitching rotation. I learned all about the Tigers on that trip. Little did I know that they were just one year away from a most glorious World Series victory. The parts were all there that day: Kaline, Freehan, Cash, Lolich, McLain, etc…

I don’t remember who won, but after the game, we went to stand along the first base fence as the players made their way to the clubhouse. As the Yankees staggered by, Joe Pepitone stopped and looked right at me…seven year old kid with a Yankee cap and glove…”Hey, kid, wanna ball?” he said easily.

I nodded my head and to my amazement, Joe Pepitone tossed a ball to me! (I’m sure my teen-aged sister was intensely jealous at this point). I couldn’t believe it! Joe Pepitone, the most popular player on the Yankees…he was like the Yankee Beatle…had tossed me a ball! Then he offered to sign the ball. I just couldn’t believe my good fortune. Mickey staggered by, and I managed to get him to sign (I think). Kaline signed. Other players that I’ve long forgotten came by; some signed and some walked on by. To me, they were all like proud ancient Greek warriors returning from battle. I loved baseball then.

Later in the week, we found ourselves back at Joker Marchant Stadium. This time it was the Mets playing the Tigers. Ken Boyer and Swoboda chatted with us. After the game, however, my love for major league baseball reached its apex. We were invited down onto the field by Aunt Bets and Uncle Vern. They seemed to be some kind of power players in the local baseball community. I took my baseball with me and my parents filmed me throwing from the mound. I’ll never forget that special feeling standing high on that mound and lording over the plate. That moment was not lost on this seven year old.

The Tigers have made it to the playoffs this year, but I still live another magical time when I was king of the mound pitching to Mickey, Tommy, Al, and Joe. “Ryder winds…delivers a strike to the plate. Al swings but can’t get to it. STRIKE THREE! Ryder strikes out the side and the Yankees win! The Yankees win! THE YANKEES WIN!

The Tigers have made it to the playoffs this year.

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.

Sir Winston Churchill