I drove by the ol ballfield not giving much thought to
it. I have driven by it so many times on way to moms that I almost forgot
about it being there. Today though unlike other days I stop.
It is now 31yrs later-half a lifetime later and what I see is a lonely field
overgrown with trees and grass.
Leaves blow across the road like a bunch of running kids. Through the
rustling you can almost hear their voices as they scamper across.
I remember a field where glory came to some players. Now it is just
a field.
There is not even a reminder of where Homeplate had been. Nor is there anything left of the backstop. Gone are the post that the hogpen wire and chicken wire had been nailed too. The wooden posts were just straight trees that had been cut down to make the backstop. All of it gone. Maybe the posts got thrown into some stove for heat.
At least they were used for a good purpose and not simply cut down and set on fire.
Or?
They might have been used for a fire to keep warm those drinking ice cold beer on colder winter night?
Where players used to run around and roam left field -center field-right field. Nothing running through or around it now except for a dirt road and maybe some field mice.
No noise except for the wind as it rustles through the grass- gone are the
voices and shouts –of balls smacking into gloves, the crack of the bats
a hit–ahhs, and ohhs, sounds of the game.
All of it is gone now.
Nothing except for the memories of…..
Men like Fireballer Henry Lee, Big Joe behind the plate in his catchers’
gear and others who faded from memory quickly with their passing.
These were the Saturday and Sunday heroes winning and losing during
all those hot, sweaty, summer days.
Hard living and drinking made for a short time of playing ball especially
for the Indian men.
They still came to play in faded out pieces of team uniforms. The colors
didn’t even match but hey they were here to play ball!
Men past their prime going for that glory one more time. The belly getting there first. After the games came the drinking-loud talking-louder boasting of plays made-laughter at the bonehead plays –raucous hoorawing at you if, you were that bonehead.
Many drinks later a hit became almost a homerun. Laughing loudly at winning the games, and louder cussing, and cursing the losses.
Words instead of fastballs and harsh words, are thrown at each other. Fights broken up- this was no place for nice girls if any were around.
Every community had a team some had two whether north or south.
Most just called themselves by their community names like Greasy, or
Cherry Tree, Dry Creek, even Bell community had a team.
I recall seeing a picture of nameless Indians and their four finger gloves.
Really ancient equipment
Time and times again, the same old sad scenes played out again and
again, over the years men reliving glory days. Just like Bruce sang about
them.
Baseball season came and went with only players changing. It wasn’t
long before the game morphed into another one.
Enter the game of softball, a bigger ball.
The grade schools all played fastpitch softball and it started taking over.
Gone were the glory days of baseball as softball caught on. Its’
popularity probably had something to do with girls playing too.
Bingo games, Chili, and pie suppers became common ways to raise
money for the team uniforms. The uniforms got better as teams now
added names whether community or a ferocious sounding one like the
warriors, braves, or some such.
The teams that were formed consisted of former baseball players. With
the passing of the game of baseball there were those who still wanted a
chance to play the game.
Even though they were way past their prime.
However, you played it, softball wasn’t my game all my hits came from
hitting the bottle. If that had counted as a batting average mine would have
been out of sight.
Sometimes I hit the bottle too much and wound up hitting
the ground.
Whereas some players dusted themselves, off from a great slide into
second-third base or home plate.
All I raised a big puff of dust as I slide backward into the dirt.
Still the picture of the ball field remains only as a picture.
The ball diamond was lined with trees behind home and down the 3rd
baseline on past right field. Under these trees came the glorious
stories of the games.
Which, in turn became the game!
I did play in grade school we were the
best 1-win 13- loss team around. High school and the army got in the
way of my playing career. Such, as it was.
After the service I returned home to Cherry Tree and hung around the ball
fields and of course the games. We even formed a team of young guns.
Played my older brothers’ team and lost both times. They took the best
players and left me all alone.
I did get to play in a slow-pitch tourney. For shame for shame,
we got beat by a score of 21-3! By a team named the Rinky-Dinks!
Slaughtered! Slaughtered by the Rinky-Dinks. Oh the shame of it all.
I retired after that and continued my hitting streak with the bottle and
some more joints.
Time has dimmed memories of those who played. Age, drugs, alcohol
and the passing away of others. In time other players came along some
good, some mediocre, but not as great as those that played the game
before. The next generation of players hold to who was the greatest.
Why even mediocre players had risen to star status.
As for me no accolades, I left no impression or impact on the game.
Probable best remembered as “oh, that drunk guy yea I think I seem to
recall him.”
One day I drove by the ball field in my 70 Buick LeSabre and cops pulled
out from the side road.
Buick LeSabre. And the cops pulling out from the side roadand chasing
me down.
My drinking bud good ol’Spud and I got pulled over by the cops. Somebody
had been burning rubber and making a nuisance of themselves. The cops
told us that the person doing this drove a white car with a dark top. My
car happened to be white with a dark green top.
one of the police officers had us stand out behind my car. He
asked me “what’s the make of your car?” Before I could answer, Spud
spoke up. He said “dang it written right there on the turtle hull!” Right
after he said that I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven, that and my
next thought was “oh, no here we go off to jail!” Not so! They hauled
my car off to the impound yard and left us standing on the side of the
road. People from the game drove by to see what had happened.
I stood watching the cars with a smirky look and feeling a bit chagrined.
Concerned citizens or Indians?
Naw, they were just the nosey gossiping, kind of citizen Indians.
Luckily for me my sister drove by and gave us a ride back to the ball field
where we became, heroes for the moment. Basking in the glory of why
we had gotten stopped. Then everyone’s attention returned to the field
and all those fabulous ballplayers.
Hours later after the game and everyone else has gone home a fire’s
started.
At first with some wood then someone throws an old tire into
it. Pretty soon a big blaze is going. We’re all standing around the fire
and consuming more alcohol. Once again stories of glory days come
around.
Much later as the fire dies down and drinks are gone people start off
slowly, weaving their way home. None of us realizing that we’re all
black-faced from the smoke.
I stumble home too. Mom’s face is a mixture of anger and a funny little
smile as we must look like refugees from the negro-leagues.
Another day, another game and memories.
The girls’ game is over and now the men take the field.
The men’s game features two evenly matched teams.
It’s a close game the home team needs a hit. With runners on base up
comes Big-stick.
He’s called Big-stick because he can hit the ball a mile. Outfielders back
up. Those that don’t know who Big-stick is are told to by the old timers
to back up.
The pitcher gets the signal and ball smacks into the catchers’ mitt.
“Ball one ump calls out.”
Encouragement is shouted out to pitcher and hitter are shouted out.
Strike him out!
He throws like a girl! Hit it out of here!
Another pitch –strike one.
More yells. “Atta boy way to pitch!”
“Look’em over wait for your pitch.”
Another pitch strike two comes the call.
Big-stick looks unperturbed. He shows no emotion as the next pitch is a
called a ball.
The pitcher winds up and lets it fly!
Big-stick shows nothing and then bam! He gets hold of a fat pitch and
sends it over the center fielder’s head. Fans start screaming out
encouragement and instructions!
As the fielder races for the ball, Big-stick starts his run.
Each teams’ fans exhortimg their players on.
Cries of “it’s a home run, others calling out get the ball hurry!”
Everybody is screaming “run faster!”
Others “throw the ball!”
“Throw the dang ball!” “C’mon pick it up!” “Hurry!”
“Hurry!”
“Run faster!”
Try as he might time has caught up to Big-stick.
Amid the yells of “you can get him out if
you’ll just throw it now!” “Hurry, throw it!” “Throw the dang ball!”
amidst the shouts and cheers runs Big-stick or rather lumbers.
Legs that ran the bases like the wind now feel like they’re running in
molasses. What would’ve been, should’ve been, could’ve been, a home
run easily now becomes, a mere three bagger.
Big-stick almost gets thrown out as he reaches third. Thanks in part to
the aging fielders trying to throw him out. Breathing hard and
heavy he bends over to catch his breath. He probably recalls the much
younger times of glory days.
Hard living, booze and cigarettes make their own mark in the games of
the Native American pastime.
Fastpitch, and Slowpitch softball and of the past glories now faded and
some still fading.
As well as those that use to play the game.
It was also a time when a children might have gotten the wrong idea of
players names.
Not everyone was named Dammit but it was used a lot for d—catch the
ball, d—run faster, d—throw the ball, D—you can’t even play first and so
on.
Why one might even think the umpire was named Dammit! With all the
shouting of you call that a strike or a ball? Dammitt can’t you see, you
must be blind Dammitt.
Anyone ever wonder why in the world, would a family let alone parents
would let their blind son officiate a game?
Pretty sad using the French name Dammit like that!
I drove about 20 miles to take one picture and as I drove along the back
Roads, highways, and byways, I recalled places
that used to contain a ballfield. All you needed was a flat enough piece of a
field, some tall posts, chicken wire, and Wal-lah a ballfield. Along with many
other fields of play now a house sits on it or cows amble along former
baselines and the outfields.
Cherry Tree ballfield is gone the field remains just a field.
There is no glory in that. The field where Indians played. Indian history and culture at play.
The field where Indians played. Indian history and culture at play.