baseball – S'amusing

“PLAY BALL!”

Pitcher, outfielder,Dad/coach/umpire, first baseman

It wasn’t a call that reverberated over the fences and throughout the neighborhood. No, it was more of a professorial urging by the umpire, “play ball”, and we did.

Today was the official opening of the new ball field, a garden like area nestled among stately homes, comfortably laid out in the family’s new backyard, with floral baselines, an ornamental outfield tree and even a mini brick wall, Wrigleyesque. For lack of a formal name, I’ll refer to it as Claybourne Field, or “the field” for short.

Such a difference from the ‘old field’, a simple front yard lawn on a busy avenue, a family lab of sorts, where a father and his two young sons bonded forever thru America’s pastime, baseball. A place where the boys learned to hit, run and throw and their dad/coach/umpire honed his parenting skills. *

Every new ballpark has some semblance of a pregame ceremony. Today was no different and I was truly honored to throw out the first pitch, three exactly, one to each boy and their dad. My own solo practice sessions leading up to the big day rewarded me with three perfect pitches, fastballs right down the middle.

Following the pregame festivities, it was time to start the first game on ‘the field’’. I played the pitcher position for both teams, guaranteeing me to be both the winning and losing pitcher, probably a first in baseball annals.

For two innings, I kept the offenses guessing with my repertoire of ‘stuff’: fastball, curve, knuckler, change up and even a hit batsman to keep the hitters honest and away from the plate. Oh, they hit me, alright, and even scored a few runs but the game was low scoring until the third and final inning when the floodgates opened.

The hitters, kids and dad, finally figured me out and sprayed hits all over the field. The tall, lanky first baseman sent shots whizzing by my ear. The small, spunky outfielder swung for the fences on every pitch, pointing where the ball was going each time. Such swagger! Such chutzpah, even. **

Not to be outdone, the dad/coach/umpire peppered the outfield wall and trees, often sending the spheroid out of sight with his brute strength, building a big lead. Not even my high leg kick delivery slowed the onslaught.

The third and final inning saw a valiant comeback effort by the boys stopped in its tracks when the dad snagged a wicked line drive for the final out and a 16-10 winning score.

Thanks for inviting me to join your game and be a young man, again, boys. It was fun to be part of your story and write about it. The autographed ball has a special place on my shelf and in my heart.

This is the third story chronicling my former neighbor and two sons and their love of baseball. See the links below for the first two.

Steve (062623)

* https://srbottch.com/2023/03/18/they-closed-the-old-ballpark-today/

** https://srbottch.com/2021/10/02/the-kid-he-called-it/

Find my stories at ‘srbottch.com’)

They Closed The Old ‘Ballpark’, Today…

The ‘boys’ came to play…

…but this time would be different.

Today would be their last game at the old ‘ballpark’, the grand finale, the wrap up, the capper. It’s time to move on to a bigger ‘ballpark’.

A bit melancholic, maybe, but Life is like that. Today’s celebration becomes tomorrow’s remembrance.

It didn’t matter that snow covered the field for this final game, it had to be played. They were paying homage to the field, itself, a patch of lawn where two young boys learned the finer points of baseball from their coach, a devoted dad who used the sport to teach his sons lessons about growing up, getting along and having fun.

Over summers, I spectated from the third base side, separated from the action by the street that divided our neighborhood, west and east, witnessing the growth of the ‘team’ from young boys first learning how to swing a bat to baseball fanatics becoming ‘sluggers at the plate’, albeit still youngsters.

Some epic games were played here, high scoring events, very high, as the ‘ballpark’ was in constant use during summer months. The whack of the bat on ball, plastic on plastic, closely followed by cheerful shouting as young hitters outraced the nimble fielder, their dad, for an extra base, or two, often winning with a tumbling slide.

It’s a bit sad when the last out of the last game is made. Players collect the bat, ball and bases, the gates are shuttered and the curtain comes down on the old ‘ballpark’. It’s time to move on. It’s the same with families.

Our young neighbors and the ‘team’ are doing just that, moving on. We’ve enjoyed their friendship for 10 years and wish them well, knowing they’ll do fine. They have strong values of faith and love for one another.

As for the ‘team’, when it was all said and done, they moved on, hand in hand, likely learning more lessons from their ‘coach’.

The new field will be nice but the memories of the old field, their first ‘ballpark’, will stay with them forever. Life is like that…

Steve (031823)

For Jonathan, Eva, Noah & Jacob

The ‘Kid’, He Called It

He didn’t point, only the great Babe Ruth did that. No, he didn’t point, instead the ‘kid’ just called it, he called the shot.

I witnessed it, and have played it over and over in my mind’s eye. The ‘kid’ called his own shot.

“I’m gonna hit a home run, Steve“, he said with the naive clarity, confidence and high pitch of a young boy. Such Chutzpah.

I can still hear the classic October sound of bat on ball, plastic on plastic. ‘WHOMP’! The ‘kid’ called it and true to his word, the ball flew over the single tall arborvitae behind the pitcher and rolled into the street, a bonafide homer per the arbitrary ground rules set by the ‘pitcher/umpire/announcer’ dad.