Note: I was directed to a blog called The On Deck Circle, written by Bill Miller. The subject of the blog that day was childhood memories, and the story of a little boy hitting his first home run. It brought the following back to me as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
The long, narrow, vacant lot across the street lay as an open invitation, almost begging the neighborhood kids to transform it into a crude playground, or perhaps a ballpark. The big boys on our block in Riverdale, Illinois, saw its potential and created a Wiffle ball field. They made rules so you could play with as few as two on a team. If you hit the ball past the fielder, it was a single. Past a particular bush, a double. Past the apple tree, a triple. And into the high grass way out there, halfway to the alley, a home run. There were no bases. You had to remember where your men-on-base stood on the non-existent diamond.
I was too little to play, but I loved to watch the big boys pitch and swing the bat.
One day, the guys must have been short a player because the older kid who lived almost at the end of the block asked if I wanted to be on his team. Thrilled, I jumped up and took the field. When it came time for our side to bat, he handed me the thin, wooden Wiffle ball bat with fraying black friction tape wrapped around its handle. I stepped up to the “plate,” just a dirt smudge where no grass grew. All I wanted to do was make contact. There was no way I could hit the triple area, let alone the tall grass for a homer.
The pitcher wound up and threw. The pierced plastic ball picked up the air currents and danced its way toward me like a knuckler. I swung and missed. The next pitch came in a little straighter, so I let up on my swing and felt the clean, full, satisfying vibration of a solid hit. But I had gotten ahead of the ball and pulled it left and foul. It flew over a chain link fence at the corner of a neighbor’s yard. I was relieved. If I had hit it straight it would have been a routine fly ball out.
All of sudden my teammate started screaming and patting me on the back. “Way to go! Way to go!” Even the pitcher and his fielder had to jog to the plate and congratulate me.
“What’d I do?” I asked.
“You got yourself a homer!” said my teammate.
I didn’t know it, but the boys had declared that corner of the fence the “short shelf” of their field. You had to land the ball just right, and I, without realizing it, had done it.
“Perfectly placed,” said the older kid from the end of the block. “Nobody’s ever hit one there before!”
My first home run, and to this day, over a half century later, the only one I remember.
Floyd
Do you have a story like Floyd’s? We invite you to share your personal baseball story … Send a Tweet to @baseballisms with a quick message, send us an email or visit our Upload page with a video message. We look forward to continuing to grow a community of fans interested in Wisdom from the Diamond!
Baseball Fan Robert Harris‘ submission to Baseballisms.com reprinted with permission. Our heroes can let us down some times, but that does not mean that they have lost the passion that burned so hot that they were compelled to pursue the game of baseball. Robert shares his encounter with one such hero, and we thank him for sending us this story …
A few years ago, I was at a fantasy baseball camp at Dodgertown in Vero Beach, Florida. A number of retired ballplayers were there, but the biggest name of all was Pete Rose. Yes, there are some things he should not have done, but he’s still Charlie Hustle, and his passion for the game still remains.
The moment that sticks out for me was in one of the five games we played over the course of three days. I hadn’t played an actual baseball game in decades, so I was more than a little bit rusty. But I was determined to make contact as much as I could at the plate. I struck out a lot in little league, so this was my long-awaited shot at redemption.
In one of the games, I came up and made a little bit of contact, sending the ball to the second baseman for a routine putout. As I’m running back to the dugout, disappointed in myself, Pete Rose says “Good job” and gives me a fist bump. Yes, I got a fist bump from Pete Rose. It was amazing.
When I went back and sat down, I realized he wasn’t just doing that to cheer me up. The batter before me had led off the inning with a double, and by grounding out to second, I had succeeded in moving the runner over to third. I also realized that he saw the game on a level that I didn’t see. Everyone would have liked to crack a base hit through the infield to bring the run in to score. But by giving myself up (even when I wasn’t trying to), I still managed to help the team. And it is a team sport, after all.
Over the course of all my at bats (I think there were 17 in all) I only struck out once. So I accomplished what I set out to do, and had lots of fun doing it. But that fist bump will stick with me forever, especially since I understand why it happened.
Robert
Do you have a story like Robert’s? We invite you to share your personal baseball story … Send a Tweet to @baseballisms with a quick message, send us an email or visit our Upload page with a video message. We look forward to continuing to grow a community of fans interested in Wisdom from the Diamond!
This past Sunday was the annual celebration of Father’s Day .. a day to remember dear old dad and to reflect on how much of a presence he is in a child’s life. For generations, the game of baseball has been a common thread in families everywhere, allowing for bonds to be formed during long car rides to practice fields and for rituals to develop during games played at all levels. Getting to know Dad through sharing his passion for a game is a formative influence on a son or daughter.
The same can be said for music, particularly the type of music that has been nurtured and shared on country porches in the hills and valleys across the land. Sometimes the music can assist in telling histories and passing legends from generation to generation. It can be known as the Blues, it’s also known as Bluegrass, sometimes all encompassing known as Americana – but it’s ALWAYS known as authentic.
Here at Baseballisms we were honored this past Saturday night, the night before Father’s Day, to have been allowed a chance to capture some stories from a seminal force in the world of Americana music, and one who is widely known for his passion for baseball – Sam Bush.
…. and we are extremely humbled by the fact that the previous day, Sam’s father Charlie had passed away at the age of 89.
We will forever be thankful to Sam, for giving his time and for sharing with us a glimpse into his childhood, for speaking about his dad, … and for painfully recalling an intimidating opposing pitcher from his Little League days.
Make sure to check out More Wisdom from Sam Bush in Part Two of his baseballism.
Check out Sam on tour when he’s in your area .. and chances are you’ll catch him wearing some authentic team jersey.
If you have a story like Sam’s to share, please visit our Upload page. We look forward to receiving it!
During the summer of 1975, while the Red Sox were thrilling Beantown with a team that according to Bill Nowlin, would go on to save baseball, a team of neighborhood kids banded together to rule the Lexington Summer League.
Stacking up some strong pitching performances with a fun cast of characters, these boys went on to collect their pride and joy championship jackets.
Budgets and stitching technologies in those days limited the per jacket costs the league was willing to spend, but this one was top notch!
In this baseballism, we hear directly from 7-year old Ryan about his Little League walk off homerun. His telling of the story is now a captured to replay & enjoy over and over again. Watch his excitement as he tells of the shot – and his journey around the bases – with two runners on and two runs down in the last inning of the game.
Also, keep an eye out in the background for a great stab of a line drive by the second baseman at the :50 second mark!
The long, narrow, vacant lot across the street lay as an open invitation, almost begging the neighborhood kids to transform it into a crude playground, or perhaps a ballpark. The big boys on our block in Riverdale, Illinois, saw its potential and created a Wiffle ball field. They made rules so you could play with as few as two on a team. If you hit the ball past the fielder, it was a single. Past a particular bush, a double. Past the apple tree, a triple. And into the high grass way out there, halfway to the alley, a home run. There were no bases. You had to remember where your men-on-base stood on the non-existent diamond.
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