A Little Boys Dream

 

  Growing up in the 1960's every little boy dreamed of being a Major League Baseball player. Names like Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and Pee Wee Reece were heroes in the eyes of all of us young boys with big dreams. The New York Yankees was the first team name that would come up when we all grouped together and discussed the game of baseball. In the summer months, while we played outside all day, you could usually find us in some vacant lot playing baseball and you could bet one team was always called the Yankees. Getting a new baseball, glove, or bat was like getting a new bicycle, a cherished item. We took care of our glove too; a new glove had to be shaped so we took saddle soap and waxed it down really good. Next a baseball was placed into the pocket of the glove and we put rubber bands around it to mold it into that perfect shape.

  When I was a young boy and reached the age of six years, I was able to play Little League baseball. This was an organized group of teams, complete with hats and uniforms that played each other for a certain number of games, eventually crowning a championship team from each age group. The leagues was determined by age and advanced up from six to eight years, eight to twelve years, and then the senior league which played teenage boys. Tryouts were held in early spring which allowed the coaches to pick the boys according to how good they were, similar to the draft used by major league sports. Getting onto a good team was the most important thing that could happen. It allowed for bragging rights and bragging amongst young boys was another past time. Before the season officially began, we went through several weeks of practice in the afternoons after school. We were placed into positions that we showed we could play and then the coach would put us on either first string or second string.

  The first year I played Little League ball, I was actually five and a half really too young to be on the team, but my Dad was the coach. This was his first and only year he coached a ball team and we were the Indians. We sported red hats with a big I on the front, white uniforms with red trim and red striped long socks. There were about fifteen boys on the team and my brother was the first string catcher. Both of my older brothers were catchers and really good but I wanted to be a pitcher. On Saturday afternoons, around 12:30, the Yankees would come on the TV and I was glued to the picture tube watching as the pitchers threw their strikes to the batters. One of the pitchers was Whitey Ford, a left hander who played his entire sixteen years for the Yankees. He could throw the ball at lightning speed, striking out batters as they faced the mighty lefty. Yep I wanted to pitch, but I was young and small for my age, but I was an Indian, complete with uniform, hat, and long red socks. That year the "B" Team Indians were good, I watched as those boys won game after game, defeating each team they faced. I idolized the team pitchers as they struck out the batters they faced. I watched my brother as he threw the ball down to second base from home plate, tagging out the runners who were brave enough to steal the base on him. We were good and we were winners because my Dad encouraged the boys, he didn't yell and scream at them and they all respected him. One particular game, Mickey my brother, convinced my Dad to let him pitch, now he had never pitched a game in his short life, but he was convincing and Dad let him do it. I do not remember the team we played but that day at Ridley Field in South Macon, my brother pitched a no-hitter, allowing no hits for nine innings and we overwhelmingly defeated the opposing team. I think my Dad beamed with pride more than my brother. That is just the way kids were back then, we thought we could do anything and was scared of nothing. As I previously mentioned, I was really too young to play but since Dad was the coach I was part of the team. I remember one game, we were really beating the team we were playing and it was the last inning. There was no chance the opposing team would be able to score enough points to even attempt to beat us. My Dad did something that has stayed with me my entire sixty-one years. He approached the coach on the other team and asked if he would mind if I was allowed to pitch. The coach agreed it would be okay and that little boy was on top of the world. I was so small, that my uniform was big and baggy, but I walked to the mound as if I was playing in a major league ball game. In my mind I still see that little guy taking his wind up and hurling that ball across home plate. My Dad could not have been a bigger hero in the eyes of a young boy that day on the ball field in Macon, Georgia. I don't remember how many hits or runs were scored off of me, the only I cared about  was I was on the mound, a pitcher on a baseball team playing in the most important game of my life.

  Recently, I came across a picture of that baseball team that I had placed in a box and put away. Mickey has his framed and on his desk in his office on display. I occasionally see a few of the guys that played on that team back in 1963 or 64, we speak but never mention or discuss that team, the team that was the champions of our league, undefeated champions. I have memories of them and the games played that year, the time my Dad spent practicing with all of us and molding us into a precision ball club at a young age. I remember how proud I was for my brother and my Dad, but mostly I remember the day this young boy was given the opportunity to play the game of his life.

 

"Life Happens"