As I lean now this evening, hard on an elbow and forearm near my hand holding a magnifying glass, an essential item for hours of reading with my world-weary eyes, I find myself searching and studying this essential yet quite old photograph in the tome of local history. This picture, not large of the old downtown of our small town, my hometown with the ancient, former Gibbs Tavern, that building of the late 18th century, unimportant, for the history I search for lies more recent, but decades back, perhaps out of reach, perhaps five decades back nearly, and there before the old shop with its large rectangular glass panes with awnings above them, those I scarcely recall, and the two doors, with angled concrete walks shadowed and up to them; the one door we never took, the other we always took, into that world of old wooden floors uneven and with worn varnish, the faint odor of tobacco, the old wooden phone booth in the back with glass doors that closed, the big square red metal case one had to lift open the door to, in order to pull out a cold bottled Coke, with those raised cursive letters: Coca Cola, there beside the glass counter where the middle-aged men stood, half bald, ready to take your change, or dollars for the Boating or Yachting magazine, you could hardly afford; all that of some importance, and the thin, messed-up young man, a veteran of the war we thought, he known only as “Waterfall Charlie” because he could not close his mouth properly and his speech slurred out too loudly and water flowed out of his mouth; we speculated he had been shot up in some war, the beginning of Vietnam or the end of Korea, we did not know. All of that stood in memory, even that back phone booth where you first called a girl, all that of less importance than even the second display window where once rested the upright, triangular white sign that advertised your mother’s second book of verse, all that of less importance than the image in old sunshine outside the front of the store: Neumeyers’ it was called, and here in the photo a boy on a bicycle near two other boys on bicycles, he the oldest and tallest with brown hair, the gently curving crossbar of his red Columbia bicycle, and a big metal wire basket faintly seen on the front, a basket my brother had too, then didn’t have, removed when he no longer needed it after his paper route had ended.
My brother, my older brother, one day in bright spring sunshine, still morning out in front of our house said to my father, as he got in his green and white Scout truck, “I’ll race you on my bike downtown to the Borough Hall.” (Where we would later meet him). Where my father and I, and the youngest brother too, needed to travel for the Permit to sell Sno-cones for a Cub Scout project; we had to visit The Haddon Ice and Coal Company too, for the blocks of ice they would crush for us. And as my brother smiled, I pulled closed the heavy door as my father said, “OK.” And my father was slowly turning the ignition, and my brother pedaled off in bright spring morning sunshine of a spring before this one of the second year of my Little League career. It was that spring light bright in tall green maples of warm April at morn and my brother smiling tall and lean and freckled at age 10 or 11 or so, on his red bike, that I searched for in that old photograph of those boys on bikes before Neumeyers’ of a time perhaps a bit before my time or our time, in a time outside of time for which I searched.
The following Saturday dad drove me to the Minor League Tryouts back at my old T – Shirt practice field behind distant Molly Pitcher School.
The field stood as a lush green oasis in the far corner with a backstop backed up to the corner where two streets met; one street, Avonlea headed straight alongside the field, and the other ran along behind the school down the left field and third-base line. I could see off in the distance groups of boys gathered in the bright sunshine, having catches, throwing the ball back and forth, my favorite part of baseball.
Dad said, “Have a good practice; good luck making Minors. I’ll be back here in three hours.”
“Thanks dad, I’ll need it.”
I saw a few kids I knew from school, Ralph and Ferdie, and I joined them.
I asked Ralph’s little brother Ferdie if he wished to have a catch.
“OK,” he said.
I enjoyed throwing the ball to him, and he hurled it back with speed. I could tell he was a good player, and I knew he was one year behind me in school. He and his brother played football too.
Last week after Tryouts for the Majors, I recalled, they introduced me to their new rabbit who was big and black and named Jerry. They received him as an Easter gift just that spring. When I rode bicycles back from the Little League Fields with them, Ferdie’s older brother asked if I wished to see “Jerry.”
“Hey Yaller, you’ve got to see our new rabbit Jerry; he’s big and black.” Ferdie insisted.
I saw him in their back pen; he was handsome and fully grown, and bigger than all their other white and grey rabbits. Ralph picked him up and asked, “Do you want to hold him?”
“Yes,” I responded.
I held him and I could feel him breathing under his soft coat.
“Bring him into the house; we let him sit in the living room on the big green wing chair.”
Ralph asked, “Do you want a cold soda?”
“No, thank you; I need to get home soon.”
It was interesting seeing Jerry sitting so peacefully in their living room; he seemed to enjoy sitting quietly and still on the big armchair. He seemed to need people and he seemed lonely sitting by himself earlier in the back pen.
Ralph said, “My brother is going to do a painting of him!”
“That’s great!” I said. “But I’ve gotta get going now.”
They walked me to their front door. My bike was parked below their front porch. I rode home that day under a pale sky; but that was weeks ago. Now we were gathered at a different field for another Tryout.
By the end of the morning after fielding grounders in the infield and fly balls in the outfield and taking swings at the plate the coach, whose name I thought might have been Mr. Dalrymple, called over about three boys off to the side near first base. It had been a long morning and now the sun shone brightly.
We heard new terms, like “Belly out,” which the coach said, when he explained that if a hit is going beyond the infield, “Belly out before you round first base,” and he demonstrated. But now he stood before us, his gut pressing against the straining, buttoned, faded green short-sleeved shirt.
He sent four boys out into the outfield, and directed other kids to cover third base, short stop, second base, and first base. He pointed the extra outfielder to cover either shallow left center if a righthander were at the plate or shallow right center if a lefthander were at the plate. He directed stocky, Hank Stankiwiecz, whom we quietly called “Stanky” to play catcher. Coach Dalrymple said, “OK, all you boys leftover lineup here.”
We jostled each other and stood off to the side of the chain-link backstop in the pale gravel earth.
“OK, you boys are the batting team. After a handful of pitches, I’ll send you out in the field after everyone has batted once. Whoever is on deck grab a bat; whoever is first take a bat and a few practice swings; you’re up.”
Ferdie stood tallest and first in line.
The coach walked across to the pitcher’s mound while hauling a small green canvas bag stuffed with what looked like 10 hardballs.
“You are all here for Tryouts for Minors,” he yelled. “A little later, Coach Smithy will observe anyone interested in pitching alongside the first base line. Now we will have hitting, base running, fielding, throwing, and catching drills. If you are interested in pitching, see Coach Smithy after you hit.”
With the bright morning sun above centerfield the coach began tossing practice pitches to his catcher. He had an easy motion and the pitches did not seem so hard or fast from where I stood along the first base side.
“OK, Ferdie, you’re up,” the coach called.
Soon we heard the loud thwack of the wooden bat on the ball and watched the ball sail over the shortstop’s outstretched mitt.
“Nice hit,” Coach Dalrymple praised. “Let me throw you a few more.”
He wound up a bit more energetically and threw another pitch toward the plate. Ferdie swung and nicked it and the foul ball rang against the chain-link back fence.
“Nice cut. OK, here comes another.”
Once more Ferdie connected and a fly ball flew out past the second-base bag.
“Someone catch that Texas Leaguer,” Coach Dalrymple encouraged.
Gus ran over from shallow left field and caught it.
“OK, next hit you run it out.”
The coach hurled in another strike and Ferdie swung hard and missed.
“You got to hit it before you run. OK, one more.”
The coach hurled in another and Ferdie swung and connected. A hard grounder skipped toward the shortstop. Ferdie ran hard straight for first base. His blue helmet bounced over his brown eyebrows. The short stop fielded the grounder and threw behind Coach D., who knelt low before the mound. The throw sailed over the first baseman whose mitt reached about two feet below the ball and he turned and ran toward the patch of tall grass near shallow right field. Ferdie stormed over the bag and stomped on it and didn’t slow until he was nearly in shallow right field. The kid playing first, Corey couldn’t find the ball in the thick grass.
“Run to second Ferdie!” Coach yelled.
Reaching second base without sliding Ferdie adjusted his helmet and smiled. Corey finally found the ball and threw toward the second baseman standing about two feet from the bag.
“OK, circle in boys.”
The coached called to Jimmy at second base, “OK, toss it here,” as he trotted over toward first base.
Soon most of us were gathered around the first base line and the coach gave instruction on base running. Three boys ran in from the outfield, and other players moved in from positions at third, short, and second; even the catcher moved up toward first. The outfielders stood off in the distance in the bright, mid-morning sun.
As we stood in a loose horseshoe-shaped group, Wilbur Dalrymple – I later learned from Ralph, said, “You’ve got to belly out; that’s the key to rounding first and running toward second, and perhaps even to third. You’ve got to belly out.”
Coach Dalrymple had an oversize belly that strained against his light shirt, but he made his point emphatically enough.
He trotted back to home plate and yelled, “Now watch me belly out boys!”
He began trotting fairly briskly up the baseline toward first base, his “belly” bouncing and rippling under his shirt, then when he was about 20 feet from the bag he moved to the right about three feet outside the lime baseline and then made a slow-curving right turn, then left face and ran right over the first base bag, stomping over it causing a blonde dusty cloud to arise from the cream-colored canvas bag strapped to a buckle below. He kept running toward second base, the slowed, and turned toward us, and said,
“See boys? Belly out! It will enable you make a sharper turn over first and straight to second if you think you can beat out more than a single.”
We all nodded in the bright sun, and I said quietly to myself, ‘belly out.’
“Back to your positions. Next batter up!”
The rest of us then lined up off to the side of home plate and Coach Dalrymple said, “When I hit the ball start running toward first and if the ball makes it through the infield, belly out and round first and head to second; see if you can beat the cut-off throw to second.”
The coach, hauling his canvas bag and then picking up a bat stood near home plate. At the coach’s feet lay a dusty canvas bag, from which he shook out old scuffed baseballs, many with the tan and ochre tint of the earth ground in, and he tossed one with his left hand and then swing at it and hit it between where the third baseman or the shortstop stood. I stood next in line and put down a bat.
I heard the crack of the bat and ran as hard as I could toward the first base bag and saw to my left a hard grounder skip right over toward the short stop; I followed the coach’s lesson, bellied out and headed for second. My legs moved as fast as they could, and my arms pumped. Soon I slid safely feet first into second base.”
“Good run Yaller,” the coach yelled.
I smiled to myself as I dusted off my jeans and stood in the sun on second base. This was an achievement for me since I rarely got a hit and got on base, but I could run. At least three more boys ran through the same drill; soon I crossed home plate standing up.
“OK, let me see some more batters,” Coach D. yelled.
When standing in the batter’s box, the coach’s pitches seemed harder and faster than they seemed earlier. It also seemed he had become more impatient:
“Four pitches each.”
I swung at the first pitch and my grounder seemed poorly fielded, and Coach D stopped.
“No, no, no!” he yelled. “Don’t be timid; charge the grounder; keep your hands out in front and your butt down behind you, and your knees bent, and legs flexed.”
He walked over toward the embarrassed fielder. No one poked fun at him because some of us knew how frightening a hard grounder could be, but we had never received any instruction like this on fielding before.
“All you boys trot over here. Now watch my stance for fielding.”
He bent down at his waist with his hands forward and his mitt open. He had left his bat back by the backstop on the sandy gravel near his son Gus. Coach D. turned to face back toward home plate. Now almost sit your butt down behind you, but don’t fall down; just keep your butt down so you’re in an L shape, like this.”
Now throw me a hard grounder he yelled back to Gus.
Gus obliged and tossed a crisp grounder toward his dad.
“Cheese and crackers! My aching back!” Coach D yelled as the hard grounder skipped up off the gravel and off the front of his glove. “Well you get the idea. One more smart-aleck!”
His son obliged with another low, hard, skipping grounder, which the coach fielded cleanly.
I took a few more swings but hit only two more hard grounders toward the second baseman.
“How about one more?”
Coach Dalrymple obliged and I connected with an emphatic thwack. The ball sailed to the left of coach and over second base and hit the grass about 10 yards before the centerfielder. “Run Yaller!” the kids waiting to bat yelled.
I ran hard toward first and just made it to second still standing up, with my helmet left in the dust between first and second base after I took the turn and ‘bellied out.’ It took four more batters before I made it home and then picked up my mitt and headed out toward the outfield sending the centerfielder in to bat.
Later Coach Smithy called me over, “The Coach tells me you want to try pitching?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are three ahead of you. Just wait.”
I was the last one; the Coach had me walk over beside the first-base line just beyond the bag, alongside shallow right field where there rested a low practice mound and a worn rubber home plate half hidden straight ahead, by the grass and earth ahead in the distance. He had a catcher’s mitt on, and he said, “Now let’s see you throw a few. Stand over there on the warm-up mound.”
He crouched down in a catcher’s stance about forty feet away just behind a pale white vinyl home plate.
“Now throw your best pitch.”
I did not know how to throw a curve ball or any spin pitches. I just knew to throw over the plate and not too high or too low or into the dirt. I went into my wind up; I felt a little hot and rushed; I knew this was it, and I knew I would get only a few pitches.
I wound up and threw nearly as hard as I could right over the plate about waist high for a third grader. Then I did the same again, and another. I could tell the coach was losing patience.
“OK, two more.”
I threw again and the coach tossed it back.
“OK, one more,” he implored. “Those are strikes Yaller, but not very hard.”
I threw my last pitch.
The coach stood up from his crouch with difficulty and muttered, “My aching knees,” and walked toward me. “Those first four were all strikes, but I don’t see any movement, and not enough velocity on the fast ball; we’ve got enough pitchers this season anyhow. You look good playing the field.”
Later that afternoon Coach Smithy blew a whistle and yelled, “Hustle in boys.” As we were gathered around in a semicircle he said, “We can take only 9 more boys for the three remaining Minor League teams which aren’t already full; the rest of you can tryout again next year. Another year of T – Shirts wouldn’t hurt you young players. Coach Dalrymple will post the players for Minors on the board behind the back stop in a few minutes, boys. That was a good Tryout; you’re all ballplayers!”
I could barely see the list on the bulletin board; it was a head above me. I could tell by the boys in front of me that my chances seemed slim. I didn’t see my name, but I knew from his smile that Ferdie had made the Minors for his second season, and he turned to me and said, “You got a good hit Yaller, you should have made it,” then I saw him and other boys running off, laughing and joking and smiling to each other, hitting each other in the arms with their folded mitts. As I walked back behind the backstop and up along the third-base line over the thick grass that ran alongside the street and under the broad-trunked trees I let my eyes cast downward to my sneakers with their dirty laces.
One of the boys walking by said, “You’ve got brown socks; doesn’t your mom use bleach?”
I ignored him, but now I could see dad standing in the distance by his green Scout truck parked beside and under a stout maple near the side of the street far off, behind the school and far from deep left field, and I saw him walking toward me; I thought he could tell how dejected I was feeling.
“How did you do son?” he asked.
“I didn’t make Minors dad; I think I should quit, maybe take a year off and grow some more.”
“But you are already registered for this season son; you’ll grow. Why not play T – Shirts one more year?” he suggested.
We drove home in silence and he dropped me off at the house.
“I’ll see you later; can you get back to the field for your T – Shirt team practice on your own after school on Wednesday?” he asked.
“I think so dad; but could you buy me some new sneakers and socks? I saw these sneakers in Boy’s Life magazine; Lou Brock, the best base stealer wears them. They have lateral traction. I need new socks too.”
“I’ll try son,” he said.
I swung the truck door shut as best as I could and walked up the walk to our front steps and walked inside where mom was typing away in the dining room and asked, “Do you want me to make you a sandwich; how about peanut butter and jelly?” she asked.
“OK,” I said.
That next season I was once again one of the shortest players on a T – Shirt team: Homestead Restaurant; we wore green t shirts and green wool caps; some kids had a black H on theirs. Even though I was one of the shortest players on the team I was one of the few who could actually catch the ball consistently when it was thrown near me. My mom watched me play during one of our last evening games that season.
The coach’s son, Buzzy was also short and played shortstop; he was two years younger than I was then, and I think I was the oldest boy on the team. But Coach started me several games and mom came to one game and saw me play once, my last year in T – Shirts.
That game my team mates often made wild throws toward me; in the mild humidity of an evening game of that season I jumped up repeatedly to catch throws from Buzzy and wild, errant throws from our third baseman, Corey. One evening, the sky had moved toward gloaming and I could feel the sweat under the brim of my cap, but I kept jumping up and snagging those throws; I loved the weight of the hardball in my leather mitt and smiled when my foot came back down on the bag and heard the Ump shout “Out!” I knew Buzzy fielded most of the infield hits at short, and I was used to his throws, hard and high, but not impossible to catch if I jumped.
“Good catch Yaller!” Coach MacCalston called from in front of the dugout.
I could see my mom sitting up in the bleachers off to the side and behind the green wooden dugout. She sat in the shadows by herself. I never noticed another mom at a game by herself, and my dad never saw me play in a game or practice. When we took the field the next inning, I noticed another mom sitting with my mom; our neighbor, Mrs. O’Farrell sitting with her, with her daughter, my classmate Kelly. We sat near each other in 4th grade. They must have given Mom a ride from the train station. Mrs. Farrell, who wrote for the local paper, had written an article about Mom and her first book of poetry. When I looked over my shoulder, as we all got ready for the next batter, Kelly lifted her left hand and waved and smiled. Her expression seemed bright in the gloaming.
We won that game, and Coach declared, “Free Sno Cones for the team!” before we ran from our field and up the steep steps toward the Major League Field and the Refreshment Stand. I stood beside the deep green refreshment stand eating my Sno – cone near my teammates and thought about the game and my bike ride home.
Later, I rode my bike home, finally on our street coasting down the gently-curving hill under the canopy of tan-trunked sycamores glimmering by my small shoulders before turning down our shadowed, near dark driveway to leave my bike in the garage down at the bottom of that slope; when back in the kitchen, as the sky stood still and dark outside, mom said to me, “That’s impressive the way you jump up and catch those throws from your team mates.”
“Thanks Mom.”
“Now eat your dinner dear.”
My brothers had already eaten. She listened to the radio on her favorite music station turned down low, but I could hear: “In the gloaming oh, my darling, When the lights are dim and low, And the quiet shadows falling Softly come and softly go,” as Mom softly sang softly along so quietly, then she said, “Both your oldest sister and your older brother used to play that on our piano.”
