I always loved playing baseball, and it's something I would love to have been able to do, but wasn't an option for a farm boy. Occasionally, I would watch classmates play in Little League, especially during their summer tournaments in Malad. Baseball was a sport that Malad did extremely well. It was not a shock to see them win against one of the Pocatello teams, a city with two very large high schools--a city, which at that time had at least 30,000 people in it. Malad's population was under 2000.
My baseball time was during the school year in fall and spring. It was tough. For years, I would stand in a group as team captains would choose teams, and each time they would pass me over. Eventually, one bunch of classmates--with girls and boys on teams--played together. They used a tennis ball instead of a regular baseball, which in those days we could still bring to school. Now schools don't allow students to play "hard ball" on the school grounds for fear of injuries.
I could hit the ball extremely well, and some of the classmates lucky enough to play on the top recess team laughed about it and chided me, because it was a tennis ball I was hitting.
Other times we played a game where three boys would hit the ball, and a group would field the hits. A pop up fly was worth 100 points, and a grounder was worth 25. Depending whether you played 300 or 500, you added points to be able to hit the ball for a time. It was where I practiced fielding skills.
I never gave up standing in the group at recess, hoping to be chosen by a team captain, and finally one day it happened, but he told me it was just that one day. It was during noon hour, and we had a full sixty minutes to play. I was up to bat. There were two outs. The bases were loaded. I stood with a bat ready to go. The captain tried to go in front of me, but I reminded him that it wasn't his turn. I said it loud enough for the opposing team to hear, which would have forced the out in our playground rules.
The captain gave me the stink eye, and he whispered that I had better hit well, if I ever wanted to play again.
I stood at the plate. I waited for the right ball. It was an advantage to play with our rules, because there was no ump. On the third pitch or so, the pitcher threw a ball just right, a bit low. I swung the bat hard, and I felt it connect. You know it's a good hit when you hear it and when you feel it on the bat--just like you know when a bat breaks.
The ball sailed into the air. The fielder ran forward. The captain cursed for a moment, but then he noticed that the ball sailed ten to twelve feet over the boy's head. I had hit my first home run, a grand slam.
Being chosen was never an issue after that. The same captain chose me, and he had me bat as clean-up batter every day.
It's a moment I'll always remember, a moment of the feel of warm sunshine and the smell cut grass.
That's why I was so excited to hear that Tommy was doing well in baseball. When he was young, I said several times that this would be one of his sports, along with track and soccer. And by the way, I also mentioned that he'd make a great defensive back or running back, but I have problems seeing my grandsons play football: the sport that riddled my ankles, knees and hip and shoulders, yet if I were 15 right now, and if it were August, I would be ready and excited for two-a-day practices. Even knowing what it did to me physically, I would do it all again.
So Tommy, here's to you in your new sport. One day when you are famous and playing serious ball instead of the fun stuff like now, sign a ball for your Pop Pop.
Place it in a spot that will be fun to see.
And remember that regardless where I am, I'll be watching proudly and smiling every time I hear you make that sound, the one a batter and fans hear when the hitter feels the ball absorb the wood of the bat from a solid swing.
