TALKIN' BASEBALL

“I’m talkin’ baseball
Kluzewski, Campanella
The Man and Bobby Feller
The Scooter, the Barber, and the Newk
They knew ’em all from Boston to Dubuque
Especially Willie, Mickey and the Duke”

“Talkin’ Baseball”
Terry Cashman, 1981

Major league baseball opened a new season a few weeks ago and opening day always takes my memory back to when I was a kid growing up in Oklahoma– when baseball was my life. I was the catcher on my neighborhood team and, on the weekends and all summer, all we did is play baseball. Most of us were 12 years old or thereabouts. I don’t recall that there was any announced schedule or even a regular location.

All I remember is that we played baseball every day that we didn’t have to go to school and, sometimes, we played into the evening until we couldn’t see the ball anymore. Sometimes we played as part of a youth league, but mostly not. When we were part of a league, we got a little coaching and maybe some matching t-shirts. And we didn’t have to supply our own equipment. But mostly we played “independent,” challenging other neighborhood teams. A problem with that was finding a place to play.

But not far from our neighborhood was a vacant field– so we decided to build our own baseball field. Looking back, I realize that we had no clue who owned the property or of he might mind if we mowed part of it. Today, there would be all kinds of liability issues (or just “get off my property” issues), but back then, the owner didn’t know what we were doing or he didn’t care.

Of course, it wasn’t much of a baseball field. For sure, not a Field of Dreams. Some of the weeds we mowed down were actually small bushes, leaving numerous “stobs” all around the field. It’s a wonder that half the fielders didn’t end up in the hospital tripping over or falling on those stobs. We used burlap bags filled with dirt for the bases and an approximately-correct size board for home plate. That was it. But we had a dedicated place to play– and we became a popular team for other teams to challenge– because we had out own field.

Back then, the nearest major league team was hundreds of miles from Oklahoma and none of us had ever seen a major league game. But we all had our favorite teams and our favorite stars and kept up with them on the radio. (Yes, boys and girls, back then there was no TV.) My favorite team was, for no logical reason, the Brooklyn Dodgers– and, in my heart, they are still persona non grata for moving to California.

Although we had nothing like professional baseball in suburban Tulsa, amateur teams from other cities would come to play our local teams. The field where they played was close to where I lived so I was allowed to ride my bike over to watch the games at night. One of the few visiting teams I remember was the Henrietta (Oklahoma) Hens. We were hardly in the Big Time, but baseball is baseball. Sort of.

When I was offered a job in Philadelphia right out of college, I anticipated that I was going to be able to see my first World Series game. That year, with 12 games remaining in the season, the Phillies were in first place by six games. But it was not to be. They lost 10 games in a row, losing the pennant by one game.

Like many Americans, my sports allegiance has shifted from baseball to the much more exciting game of professional football. But I can’t ever forget the almost-total allegiance to baseball that dominated my growing-up years.