Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century
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| Ed, 8, above, demonstrates choosing sides. |
Speaking of things - if parents today tried to raise their American children with the material possessions (sports equipment) of the 1950s they’d be reported to DYFS for child abuse (that’s Department of Youth and Family Services in NJ).
Think of two twenty-first century boys, my grandsons, approximate ages 8 and 6. And let's just take baseball as an example: Their garage today has two buckets filled with white baseballs and enough aluminum bats for a high school team. Gloves? Again, enough for a team including a catcher's mitts.
In the 1950s, like the family car, there was, most likely, one baseball, but if there were two the second was definitely wrapped with black friction tape (frayed seams) that peeled off further with every hit. At the very least it was the color of cooked spinach. A white baseball? Maybe at the Polo Grounds, but not in the pocket of my Rawlings Marty Marion mitt.
In the 1950s, like the family car, there was, most likely, one baseball, but if there were two the second was definitely wrapped with black friction tape (frayed seams) that peeled off further with every hit. At the very least it was the color of cooked spinach. A white baseball? Maybe at the Polo Grounds, but not in the pocket of my Rawlings Marty Marion mitt.
As for bats, back then they were made of wood - like the big leagues (Hillerich & Bradsby,
Adirondack, Louisville Slugger) - and if there were two in the family (again unlikely) then one was definitely broken and the handle was wrapped with the same black tape as the baseball. Severe breaks required a nail or two in the handle, a futile attempt to mend the break. It never worked. Tap the handle on the ground and you'd hear the sound of a string instrument.
Oh, and how did the bat get broken? The little brother did it. Just ask the big brother. “Cause he didn’t have the label up,” big brother will tell you - which was how bats got broken in the days before all were aluminum.
Another last chance is this: if you lose, you may twirl the bat, holding it above your head, with fingers only, by the knob, and the bat dangling like a wind-chime. Now twirl it three times about your noggin – without dropping it. Do that and you get the first choice. Invoking this rule was often a stretch, not fully ethical, it was thought.
What brings all of this side-choosing to mind is a recent after-supper game in Ashley’s (daughter, age 40) backyard.
It begins like so: Kids rushing out the back door, with papa (yours truly, age 70+) trailing. They race onto the yard, neatly lined with baselines, and a home plate batter’s box (I’m quite proud of this. A spay can of “Marking Paint" by Rustoleum did the trick). The children jump about, calling out teams.
Ed, 8, protests, saying we must choose teams and proceeds to gather four bats and gloves placing them in a pile near second base.
"What the heck?", I think.
He gets on his hands and knees, closes his eyes and feels for the items before him (see accompanying picture, above). When he touches one item he flings it to one side or the other. With eyes shut tight he continues, deliberately, and blindly rubbing his hands over the dirt feeling for another bat or glove. Despite some trouble locating the items, Ed persists, sightless and less than deft as he feels around.
I'm curiously impressed.
It begins like so: Kids rushing out the back door, with papa (yours truly, age 70+) trailing. They race onto the yard, neatly lined with baselines, and a home plate batter’s box (I’m quite proud of this. A spay can of “Marking Paint" by Rustoleum did the trick). The children jump about, calling out teams.
Ed, 8, protests, saying we must choose teams and proceeds to gather four bats and gloves placing them in a pile near second base.
"What the heck?", I think.
He gets on his hands and knees, closes his eyes and feels for the items before him (see accompanying picture, above). When he touches one item he flings it to one side or the other. With eyes shut tight he continues, deliberately, and blindly rubbing his hands over the dirt feeling for another bat or glove. Despite some trouble locating the items, Ed persists, sightless and less than deft as he feels around.
I'm curiously impressed.
Finally, having flung all items left or right, he stands up, opens his eyes and surveys the bats and gloves on each side of him.
John shouts that he wants the teams to be him, papa and Emma against Eddie, three against one. Emma shouts louder, "Me and papa," she says.
John shouts that he wants the teams to be him, papa and Emma against Eddie, three against one. Emma shouts louder, "Me and papa," she says.
Ed is silent - still looking over the flung bats and gloves. It seems obvious what he’s thinking; Should he try to explain that teams need to be assigned according to which (who’s) bat or glove landed where?
Seconds pass.
Suddenly he comes to a decision. Foregoing the glove/bat location scheme he grabs a bat and rushes toward home plate. “You pitch Papa,” he says.
Seconds pass.
Suddenly he comes to a decision. Foregoing the glove/bat location scheme he grabs a bat and rushes toward home plate. “You pitch Papa,” he says.
Emma and John protest that they should be first up.
I quickly lob a pitch to Ed. He hits a grounder which, thirty feet from home, is swallowed by a patch of pachysandra. "Lost ball," I think.
“Next batter,” I call as Ed circles the bases. "Home run Ed," I shout. All seems settled. I keep pitching, now to Johnny. I reach for another ball. No problem, we have thirty.
