When Kids Didn't Wear Uniforms by HarryT
Artwork by Lilibug6 at FanArtReview.com |
They shouted my name from the front sidewalk. “Yeo, Harrrry,” penetrated through the front windows of our bungalow. One glance outside, and I knew why they were here. My friends, Rick and Larry, stood straddling their bikes. Baseball mitts hung from their handlebars. Freckled faced, Larry wore his old, beat-up White Sox cap smashing his bushy red hair over his ears. Rick had on his blue Cubs hat. The brim pushed down so his eyes were barely visible. I opened the front door, and they both yelled, “C’mon, the guys are playing ball at the park.”“Okay, I’ll get my stuff.” Ran to my room, plunked my black White Sox cap on my head, flipped the rubber bands off my glove, cradling a baseball. I had oiled my new Nellie Fox glove and was working on forming a good pocket. Then I shuffled through my baseball cards and slipped a Jim Landis card into my back pocket (I had three Jim Landis cards). I zipped past Mom. “Going to play ball at the park,” I yelled. “Be home for supper. Five-thirty, no later.” “Okay,” I called back over my shoulder just before I closed the back door. I bounced down the back stairs, crossed the yard and swung opened the creaky, wooden garage doors. Grabbed my stripped-down red Spitfire Schwinn (fenders removed for increased speed) and slipped my Nellie Fox glove on to the handlebar. I walked my bike into the yard and pressed down on the kickstand. Took my Louisville slugger from the garage and braced it against the bike. (Mom wouldn’t let me keep my bat in the house for fear I’d break something). Slid the Jim Landis card from my back pocket and clothes-pinned it against the spokes of my front wheel. The flicking card made the bike sound like a motorcycle, so we thought. I set the left pedal to a high position, held my bat across the handle bar, ran a few steps, put my foot on the pedal, flipped on the seat, and rumbled down the driveway to meet the guys. The three of us raced down the block and turned east on 56th Street. Riding fast, we zigzagged along the street, dodging in and out of park cars, sounding ee-oo-ee-oo, like a cops chasing speeding cars. We pulled into the park, dropped our bikes near a big green wire-mesh backstop. A large number two wired to the screening. (No one knew why a number two was on the cage, because it was the only backstop at the park). The outfield was an array of dandelions, crabgrass, white clover and ground ivy with an occasional patch of raw ground that somehow survived the weed invasion. Guys attired in blue jeans, black high-top gym shoes and a variety of tee shirts and hats were busy throwing rocks and other garbage off the skin infield. The bases, home plate and the pitching rubber lay hidden under gobs of dirt. Larry went to help a fella excavating home plate, while Rick and I got to work locating the pitching rubber under hard-caked muck. Digging done and the field relatively free of debris, we gathered at home plate to choose sides. After suggestions and debate, a couple of guys said they would serve as captains. Larry decided this would be his day. James, one of the guys from the public school, was the other volunteer. A captain’s job was to pick the players he wanted on his team. To determine who got first choice, one captain flipped a bat to the other. Just as James was about to toss the bat to Larry, Rick yelled, “Catch the bat near the label and remember your friends.” Larry caught the bat, as Rick suggested. The boys then alternated handgrips up the bat handle until reaching the nob at the top. The last full hand on the bat usually determined the winner and first choice. Larry managed the last full hand. However, James could not place at least two fingers under the nob so he had the right to call, “Chicken Claws”. This claim meant that James could grip the nob of the bat with his fingertips, while Larry had three chances to kick the bat from his grip. If James held on with his claw, he would merit first choice of the players. Holding on for three kicks was rare. Occasionally, however, the clawer achieved success. James gripped the nob so tight that we could see blood rush under his finger nails. Larry aimed his foot and kicked. The bat swayed, but James held firm. Larry moved back and few steps, squinting, eyeing the target, he ran toward the bat like a football place-kicker trying for the extra point. His blow launched the bat from James’s claw and sent it end over end out near the pitching rubber. Rick shouted, “Great kick!” Larry’s effort had earned the right of first pick. This effort reassured Rick and me of being on Larry’s team. Sometimes there was a kid left over, he became the official first baseman or catcher, depending on what position was needed. The reward was he got to bat for both teams. Next, Larry tossed the bat to James. This second bat tossed was important because the winner got to determine if his team had “ins” or “outs.” The “Ins,” batted first. The “Outs,” team took the field and had the privilege of “last bats”. Larry won the handgrip battle and took “outs” which was an advantage because we could win the game in the last inning with a “walk-off run”. We trotted to our positions, which we knew to be our strongest. Rick was our pitcher and called, “Play ball!” He wound-up and delivered the first pitch and the game was underway. The rules were simple: 1. No balls or strikes called because there was no umpire, however, three swinging strikes and the batter was out. 2. All fields were open, if there were enough players otherwise either left or right field was out, dependent upon which side of the plate the batter swung. 3. If there were not enough players to have a first baseman, then the pitcher’s hands were out. 4. We were our own problem solvers. General agreement decided a close call on the bases. If there was a dispute, the disputing team would automatically get the next close call. There were no coaches to tell a player what to do, what position he should play, or where a kid should bat in the batting order. Such decisions were determined by the agreement of the players. In addition, there were no parents cheering, yelling or criticizing from the stands; in fact, there were no stands. We’d play seven or nine innings depending on the time. We kept score in the dirt. One guy would scrape out a score board and keep score with a stick. We were competitive. Each side played hard and wanted to win, but in the end, it made little difference who won or lost because we were friends. There were no trophies, ribbons or jackets, no claim as champions. We played full out, swinging hard, chasing balls and sliding into the bases. To our mothers’ dismay, we cared little about getting our clothes dirty; it was an accepted part of the game. Dirt caked, sweaty, and tired after a game, we would make a stop at Joe’s Corner Store. Larry and Rick each rejected Coke in favor of Pepsi because it came in 12-ounce bottles, at the time Coke was available only in six-ounce bottles. My favorite was Orange Crush; I didn’t care how many ounces. We sat on the sidewalk which lipped an empty lot next to the store. We swigged our pop, and discussed baseball, movies, or maybe a girl or two. When we drained the last drops, and after a couple of loud belches, brought our bottles back into the store to redeem our two cents, then hop on our bikes and head for home. The first words usually out of my mother’s mouth when she saw me were, “Take off those clothes and go take a bath. You’re not coming to the dinner table like that.” I have to admit; she had a point. My face usually had black smudges; dirt caked my neck and covered my clothes. When I pulled off my socks, dirt-rings circled my ankles. As I watched the black water swirl down the drain, I heard Mom yell, “Make sure you clean the tub. No rings, you hear?” It was a fun time when baseball didn’t require a uniform, parents, coaches or umpires. We played and played hard, just for the love of the game.
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