“Baseball is more than a game. It’s like Life played out on a field.”----Juliana Hatfield
Once upon a time, long, long ago, the world was dark and gloomy. Acid rains pelted down, volcanoes filled the air with poison ash, vicious hippogators prowled the Earth, forcing helpless humans to live in murky mountain caves where there were no Starbucks. The sun was seldom seen in these times and the mean temperatures barely rose to freezing. The average lifespan of the motley populace was 40 years and most of them were relieved to move along. Wherever they were going next had to be an improvement over this mortal coil, this drudgery, this sordid joke called Life.
It was in these times that Fabian, special assistant to the Cosmic Arbiter, approached his master with a Grand Plan for the regeneration of the Earth. The crusty overlord reviewed the renderings and the semblance of a smile creased his leathered face. “Make the arrangements,” he instructed and his faithful servant complied. A few days later, the rains stopped, the volcanoes quieted and the clouds parted. The exceptional brilliance of the sun drew humans out of their caves and the hippogators fled to the underbrush. And then a brilliant orange cloud appeared, and upon it stood the fearsome Cosmic Arbiter, carrying odd accoutrements. A hush fell over the Earth as the Big Guy prepared to give his message. With that, the C. A. tossed a white spheroid high into the air and smashed it with a colossal club. “PLAY BALL!!!” The Boss commanded. The crowd responded with a gigantic cheer. And they all lived happily ever after.
‘Twas Ever Thus
“Every day is a new opportunity. You can build on yesterday’s success or put its failings behind and start over again. That’s the way life is, with a new game every day, and that’s the way baseball is.”----Bob Feller
If a newborn arrived anywhere in New England in the middle of the twentieth century, his fate was likely marked. This infant was almost surely conceived with a Red Sox game playing on a radio somewhere in the background and osmosing into his microscopic brain-to-be, thus dooming him to a lifetime of obeisance to the code. If an outsider has any doubt, he has merely to scurry back in his Time Bubble to 1950s Hampton Beach, New Hampshire or any of 100 other New England playgrounds, walk from one end of the strand to the other and see if he misses a single play of the Sox game blasting forth from the aggregation of radios, all tuned to the same station. We might not remember who the vice-president was in 1950 but we know Billy Goodman was playing second base. Denizens of New York City, St. Louis and even grouchy Philadelphia can make the same claims, though to a slightly lesser degree, of course.
As kids, we learned something every day from baseball. We discovered that no matter how good you were, you needed a lot of help. We learned that nobody likes a cheater. We found out that if you started your slide too early, you never got to second base. The Hidden Ball Trick taught us that the hand is often quicker than the eye. We learned however much you thought you knew, baseball always had one more surprise.
Mothers didn’t understand baseball. When they asked you what time you would be home from a football or basketball game, you had the answer. When they asked how long hockey would take, it was no problem. But baseball? “Gee, Mom, it’s hard to say. If Murphy pitches for us and Kelly pitches for them, it should be quick. But if coach puts O’Malley in there, he’ll walk two guys an inning. If Riley goes for the other guys, we might get a couple of seven-run innings. Oh, and it could rain.” A rarity in sports, there is no clock in baseball. You could pop out of a Major League game in 51 minutes (Giants vs. Phillies, 1919) or stay forever (8 hours, 25 minutes---White Sox vs. Brewers, 1984). At a precipitously young age, my pal Jackie Fournier and I took a train the 26 miles from Lawrence to Fenway Park, promising our mothers we’d get the last train back. Unfortunately for us, the game went into extras and the last train left without us. We had to hitchhike home, which took a very long time. Our mothers, fearful of some horrible demise, were outraged. “You could have left after nine innings and been home in time!” they bellowed. I looked at Jackie. Jackie looked at me. Leave early? Was there some sort of madness afoot here? Does anybody do that? When you get to the Pearly Gates, St. Peter will be waiting there with his large Book of Indiscretions. When you walk up, he will turn to your page and sadly shake his head, stretching out his long arm and pointedly directing you elsewhere. You are not acceptable for admittance into that Great Ballfield In the sky for you have committed the mortalest of sins. You left early.
Of Fathers And Sons
“No game in the world is as tidy and dramatically neat as baseball, with cause and effect, crime and punishment, motive and result, so cleanly defined.”----Paul Gallico
Thomas Joseph Killeen, my father, was a serious man of hardy Irish stock, a working man, a tough customer who did not suffer fools gladly. Perhaps because he was 45 years old when I was born---25 years older than my mother---he had already used up his lifetime allowance of compliments, because he didn’t seem to have any left to dole out to his children, especially the firstborn. Tom Killeen believed in having rules to live by and perish forbid anyone broke one of those precepts because he had a leather belt to exact rectitude. Despite being a practicing Catholic, Tom’s rules even extended to the Pope. When Pius XII announced that Catholics would be allowed to eat meat one particular Friday, my father demurred. “Who the hell does he think HE is?” Tom Killeen wanted to know. Nobody, make that nobody, was allowed to break the rules.
Little League came to town when I was eight, but there were only enough resources to field four teams, comprised mostly of the sons of prominent citizens who had paid the bills to get things started. For the rest of us, there were morning leagues on four diamonds scattered around the city. I played in one of these leagues at the O’Connell Park in South Lawrence, but my father worked daily at the telephone company and couldn’t attend even if he had the inclination.
Late in a significant contest, our team held a rickety one-run lead in the final inning. The opposition loaded the bases with two outs and their best slugger coming to bat, a left-handed monster who had nearly killed me with a line drive earlier in the game. I was playing first base, one of the few positions available to lefties, and sat right in the path of his missiles. The situation allowed me to play a few feet off first in order to cover more ground but the coach kept pushing me to drift even further toward second. When the batter rocketed a pitch just inside the line, I had to dive hopelessly for the ball, somehow catching it in my giant claw. As I was dusting myself off, the subject of a swarm of jubilant teammates, I could see in the distance my father leaning on the chain-link fence in the distance. He walked off before I could join him. When I got home a half-hour later, he was sitting in the kitchen reading the sports section of the Boston Globe, a regular ritual. Without missing a beat or looking up from his newspaper, he delivered his rare Ode To Joy. “Good catch today,” he offered. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
The Faithful
“That’s one of the great gifts of this, the greatest of all games, baseball: it allows you still to lose yourself in a dream, to feel and remember a season of life when summer never seemed to die and the assault of cynicism hadn’t begun to batter optimism.”----Mike Barnicle
Very young boys are different than you and I. They are sunny, optimistic, untrammeled by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. They pick up a baseball, hold it close to their eyes for inspection, check the seams, smell the odd horsehide covering, wonder what’s inside. They put on oversized gloves, pound tiny fists into the palm, shaping them to their will, appreciating the euphoric scent of new leather. They find a bat that is not too large or too heavy to swing smoothly, running their hands over the smooth ash, reading the words on the barrel. Young boys search out friends of like persuasion, choose up sides, have a game unsullied by adult supervision, scream and holler, argue ball or strike, safe or out. If thunder rolls, they laugh. If rain falls, they play on. If an inconvenient April snow covers the basepaths, they shovel. When twilight comes, they fight its inevitability as long as possible. When parents call, they make false promises. It’s baseball, you see. It’s very important. They will not part from it willingly.
Take Me Out To The Ballgame
My father promised me that when I was old enough to start grade school he would take me to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. I thought about this all the time. When you are a tiny child, iconic shrines like Fenway are like castles in the sky, fabled heavens where the gods live, where battles of incredible importance take place, where feverish radio announcers sit in rapt attention, delivering the blow-by-blow to the outside world. Like everyone else, I had seen pictures of the Red Sox palace but still it seemed a place beyond the bounds of Earth, where acceptable guests received invitations written on gilt-edged stationery.
Nonetheless, the day came and Tom Killeen led me down Winthrop Avenue to the Boston & Maine railroad station. The train ride was a little more than a half-hour, then onto the subway at the Boston Garden, one change at the Common and on to Kenmore Square. The imposing light towers were visible almost immediately as we made the short walk to the park. I don’t know what I expected but my first view of Fenway was disturbing, a mix of confusion and disappointment. I knew what baseball fields looked like and this red-brick facade wasn’t it. My father smiled and cautioned, “Wait….”
We handed the gatekeeper our tickets and walked inside, now part of a huge milling throng traveling in all directions in the half-light of Fenway’s bowels, eventually reaching our entrance ramp directly in back of first base. I walked up the ramp until the entire field was visible and stopped dead in my tracks, paralyzed by the view. There was the enormous left-field wall, the iconic little scoreboard, the greenest grass in the universe….just like in the pictures. The Red Sox uniforms were so impossibly white they must have been created in some alternate universe and delivered by mystical beings. My father, of course, had seen this all before and merely guided me to our seats. “Wow!” I said. “This place is great.” My father looked back at me with the hint of a smile. “Billy,” he guaranteed, “This is the best baseball park in America.” Seventy-two years later, just about everybody agrees with him.
The game with the Cleveland Indians was a mess. The Red Sox fell behind 12-1 and Tom Killeen developed a dour expression. “Looks like I picked the wrong time for your first game,” he lamented. “It’s only the fifth inning,” I told him. “We could catch up.” Tom’s resigned smile signaled otherwise, but he was wrong for once. Boston battled back and won 15-14 in a game for the ages, a contest in which the Indians used pitchers Bob Feller, Gene Bearden, Mike Garcia and Bob Lemon to stem the tide, all to no avail. Every so often, baseball offers up an unexplainable souffle, a completely illogical combination of ingredients and winds up with the perfect meal. “Don’t expect this to happen all the time,” my father warned me. “It’s one in a million.” I nodded my head, but I knew better.
On the way into the park, my dad told me I could pick out one pennant to buy. I chose a white one with Red Sox scrawled in large red letters. He said we’d get it on the way out, avoiding the nuisance of carrying it around all afternoon. Alas and alack, on the way out there were no more. There were a million alternate choices but I sulkily turned all of them down. Tom Killeen was probably irritated but he was also a man of his word and come hell or high water, he was going to find that damn pennant. When we got back to Lawrence, we trooped over the Merrimack River bridge, the opposite direction from home, and all the way over to a novelty store on Broadway, a good two miles. The shop didn’t have the pennant, but the proprietor promised to find it somewhere. Two weeks later, my father came marching home, evasive pennant in hand. You’d think it was the Hope Diamond by the reaction of my mother and I. We proudly hung the thing immediately in my small bedroom and it was still there 15 years later when I returned from college. I wish I had it now.
My father was gone, but the memories lingered on, recollections of sitting on the floor by my dad’s chair listening to Red Sox-Yankees games, arguing about the relative merits of Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio, complaining about the shortcomings of various Sox managers, wondering if we’d ever win the pennant. We didn’t have much in common, me and my father, agreeing rarely, battling often. He was a difficult man to fathom, a hard one to please, cast in the ways of an earlier time. There are no stories of roughhousing in the clubhouse, frolicking on the lea, not a lot of hugging or pats on the back. But there was baseball. I could see the game through his eyes and he through mine. We had one common cause and that would have to do. I never cried at his funeral at the age of sixteen, merely went through the motions, comforted my mother, stiff upper lip. But when we got home, I went up to my room and sat on the bed, looked up at the fading white pennant with the team name emblazoned in red. Thanks, Dad, I said to myself. And, finally, I cried.
The Girls Of Springtime
“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”---Yogi Berra
When we were kids, softball was a foreign concept, a distant stepsister of baseball, reserved for fat men and has-beens. Oley Olson would smash a slow-pitch melon over the trees and into the river, stumble around the bases and head back to the bench for another beer. They had Church Leagues, for crying out loud, where nobody cursed and baserunners who accidentally spiked an opponent were sent to the confession box.
As time went by, however, softball prospered. Pitchers became more proficient, high-school and college grads took an interest, fast-pitch leagues began to appear. When Title IX became an issue in college sports, most universities initiated women’s softball to compensate for the numbers in men’s baseball. The first-ever NCAA Women’s College World Series was held in 1982 and dominated by pitchers and low-scoring games. When colleges began offering scholarships for women’s softball, virtually all highschools converted from the slow-pitch version to fast-pitch. The sport quickly took off, widely supported by fans who appreciated a faster, shorter version of baseball. The games lasted a mere seven innings, the action was crisp and fans were usually back in the parking lot in two hours. ESPN picked up the sport and covered it extensively on its battery of stations, which guaranteed widespread acceptance.
Universities in California and Arizona dominated college softball in its early years, but recently the Southeastern Conference has risen to prominence. Alabama won the College World Series in 2012 and Florida won in 2014-15. The Gators lost to Oklahoma in the finals last year. Eight teams reach the WCWS in Oklahoma City by making their ways through one of 16 four-team regional tournaments scattered around the country and then a super-regional between the survivors of the regionals. The super-regional is a best-of-three event.
Last weekend, second-seeded Florida met fifteenth-seeded Texas A&M in Gainesville for the right to play in OKC. The Gators had easily dispatched the Aggies earlier in the year, three games to none. A&M had scored a total of four runs in the three games, so this should be a snap, right? Ah, but like baseball, Yogi’s warning applies. This was a three-game series with fans constantly on the edges of their seats, a true classic with twists and turns worth of O. Henry.
In Game One, Texas A&M solved Gator pitcher Kelly Barnhill and was off to a 4-2 lead after four. Aggie pitcher Trinity Harrington was in trouble inning after inning but led a Houdini-like existence through six. Just when all seemed lost for Florida, Harrington began to flag. With one out, UF’s national player-of-the-year candidate Amanda Lorenz parked one in the street, making it 4-3. The next batter grounded out, however, and the outlook was bleak. This is usually where the fat lady sings, but she never made it in from her car. A visibly tiring Harrington walked the next batter, but then forced a ground ball to shortstop. The infielder tried a quick flip to second to catch the baserunner speeding from first but the recipient of her toss, the second-baseman, bobbled and then dropped the throw. Perhaps still addled, the shortstop, normally a defensive whiz, then let a stiff grounder from Gator Jaimie Hoover get through her legs. Two outs, bases loaded. Deflated and done, Harrington walked in the next run. Her nervous replacement, Payton McBride, got the count to 3-2 before walking in the game-winner. Gators win, 5-4. The crowd goes wild.
Game two with Aleshia Ocasio pitching for the Gators. Aleshia is solid, but gives up a home run every now and then. This time, she gives up a big one in the fifth inning to A&M thumper Tori Vidales, blowing a 4-2 Gator lead. This time there are no last minute heroics and Florida falls, 5-4.
In the Grand Finale, Barnhill and Harrington were back at it, hurling aspirins. The Gators put one on the board in the fourth, however, and another in the fifth. In the sixth, alas, Barnhill loaded the bases with no one out. Aleshia Ocasio relieved and put out the fire, hooray, allowing but one run. Ocasio then retired the first two batters in the ultimate seventh inning and the balloon man was ready to release his charges. Then, as Yogi warned us, the fun began for the Aggies. Hudek, at the top of the order, singled to right. And sauntering from the A&M dugout came the redoubtable Tori Vidales. Gator Coach Tony Walton had decided earlier not to let Ocasio face her tormentor of the night before under any circumstances. But the best laid plans of mice and men sometimes go awry. For some reason, Walton left her in and Vidales gladly slugged another one over the fence, causing no joy in Mudville and pandemonium in the Aggie dugout. Walton was ready to set himself on fire and Gator fans were ready to hand him the matches. One more chance remained for Florida. Take your pick---Oklahoma City or the dumpster.
Amanda Lorenz stirred hopes among the Florida faithful with a leadoff walk, but the next batter lined out to left field. UF’s first baseman Kayli Kvistad then walked, but catcher Janell Wheaton struck out looking. The Gators’ fate was now up to a freshman, Jordan Mathews, a powerful girl with a penchant for swinging at bad pitches. Matthews had been lowered to fifth in the batting order for this game to give the hot-hitting Wheaton earlier at-bats. The crowd was awash with sweat, the fat lady warmed up in the parking lot.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Matthews stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.
“That ain’t my style,” said Matthews. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
With a smile of Christian charity young Matthews visage shone,
She stilled the raucous grandstand and bade the game go on;
She signaled to the pitcher and once more the spheroid flew;
But Matthews still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
The smile is gone from Matthews’ face, her lips are clenched in hate;
She pounds with cruel violence her bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now she lets it go.
And now the air is shattered by the force of Matthews’ blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
And
such a place is Gainesville---mighty Matthews has not struck
out.”
That’s all, folks….
