Baseball Redux

Allen, Livingston High School, 1965

Allen, Livingston High School, 1965

Last week, I received several responses to last week’s column: “America’s Favorite Pastime.” One was from my brother (see photo at right . . . a bit dated) about whom I wrote:

Allen wrote: “Growing up in an East Texas town of 2,000 souls, there were precious few store-bought activities to occupy our days and even fewer clues as to what the future might hold for an eight-year old boy…, so we played baseball, from ‘kin to kaint’.”

“Our dad was from Missouri so I was a rabid Cardinal fan, although the O’s eventually became my American League fave. We watched Ol’ Diz and Pee Wee on the Game of the Week, peddling Falstaff between innings, and dreaming of emulating the likes of The Splendid Splinter, Stan the Man, The Say Hey Kid, Mick, Yogi, and Whitey, dreaming of authoring the heroic moments of Bobby Thompson and Don Larsen.”

“Baseball presented me with many wonderful moments of reflection, such as pitching against an older Nolan Ryan in the Texas high school playoffs (we lost 2 – 0). This was before he had achieved ultimate fame, though he was known for ‘bringing a high, hard one’ even at that time in school.”

“We caught the Red Birds vs the Rangers with Albert Pujols launching three round trippers in Game 3 of the 2011 Series in Arlington, Texas tying Reggie Jackson’s record. GW Bush and Nolan Ryan were behind home plate; Judy and I sat 3 rows behind the Cards dugout and dodged several foul balls.”

“Last September,” Allen writes, “my bride and childhood sweetheart, Judy, who saw most of the games I pitched, joined me at Fenway Park to watch the Orioles play the Red Sox in a slugfest that saw the O’s 9-run lead evaporate only to come back in the 9th to triumph. It just doesn’t get better than that!”

“For me, baseball has always been a metaphor for life: the ups, the downs, the comebacks, the inexplicable losses. Players giving their all with a rawness and total lack of a safety net, other than the TEAM.”

“Lesser players having shining moments–Mighty Casey striking out. And, then, as Lucindy noted, there is the hope of spring and a new season and then, it ends….as the days grow shorter, just as they do in life….with either victory for a few or ‘wait till next year’ for most. Baseball is a requisite part of the human experience….not to be missed.”

Here is another great story:

Don recalled a tale that has become a permanent part of his family’s history:

“Your article,” Don writes, “reminds me of Pop’s recollection, in his ninety-fourth year, about the first big league baseball game he saw. My memory is that it was 1935 and with $5 in hand, he took the train from Georgetown, Kentucky to Cincinnati, Ohio to see a double header between the Reds and the St Louis Cards. Dizzy Dean pitched the first game and his brother, Daffy, pitched the second.”

“At the age of 94, Pop could still recall who played most positions. He had a ham sandwich and a beer and came home with a couple of dollars in his pocket. His salary as a farm laborer was 50 cents a day, supplemented by a meager amount from the tenant crop of burley tobacco. It wasn’t until 1954 that he could afford a trip with the whole family.”

“When the memory of him comes floating through, it is most often of a summer Sunday afternoon, heat lightening crackling on an AM radio with El Capitan being played and ‘Waite Hoyt bringing you baseball with Burger Beer bringing you the Cincinnati Reds!’”

What great reminiscences, perfectly told. Reading these stories you feel the pride of a small town boy who pitched against a young Nolan Ryan; you experience the joy of sharing one’s passion for the game. In Don’s telling, I could even taste the slab of ham on Wonder bread and the refreshingly cold beer. The power of memories.

Consider this column a wake-up call. Record those memories NOW. Keep them alive for future generations. As for younger folks, visit your older relatives and record their stories NOW. I sorely regret not asking my mother about her life in Germany or her modeling stint in Dallas. Why didn’t I ask Daddy JE for details of his brother’s death in WWII? These stories, rather than real estate, furniture, and money, are our true inheritance and help connect families from generation to generation.

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