In my first book I wrote about my childhood and used the term “Norman Rockwell painting” to describe it. Let me set the stage: my parents got married young and stayed married. At some point, either overtly or by their actions, they made the decision to be parents. That set the foundation for all that followed. Our house was small but full of love and fun and was perfectly situated. I walked to school up until the 8th grade. My mom was a Kelly Girl so sometimes she worked and sometimes my two brothers and me went home for lunch. She made “Mom Food” for us. Grilled cheese with tomato soup, fried baloney sandwiches, cinnamon French Toast. I still remember standing in line between my brothers while my mom put a wet comb through our hair before we walked back to McGibney School for the afternoon session.
We had two back yards. A short hill (but longer when you’re a child) was the sled riding chute in winter (back when it snowed in November and snow stayed on the ground until March). We would run buckets of water from the house and make the chute as icy as possible. Elm Leaf Park (a.k.a. “the woods”) began at the end of the second back yard. There were numerous hikes, treehouses, and imaginary games of Army in Elm Leaf Park. Of 1,000 Elm Leaf memories, my strongest may be the time I went down the chute on an aluminum saucer my uncle had given me. My hands were tightly gripped in the cloth handles. I went from the top of the icy chute to the edge of the second yard in a few seconds. The kids on sleds could steer away from the woods or roll off their sleds. On a saucer, I was tied for the ride. I went over the hill, through the jagger bushes, and crash landed in the gulley at the bottom of the hill. I’m sure I was airborne part of the way. It was lucky I didn’t hit a tree on the way down. I could have been seriously hurt. While in the gulley I remember looking up into the clear, cold sky and thinking, “This is what it feels like to be dead.”
But I wasn’t dead. My injuries consisted of multiple cuts and scratches on my face from the jaggers. I couldn’t walk up the hill so I had to carry my saucer home on the streets. Elm Leaf Park Drive to Kathleen to Pleasantvue to 167 Mary Ann Drive. As I was already trying to find ways to impress the girls in my grade school, the cuts on my face gave me material for a good story.
There were two baseball fields within walking distance. North Baldwin had well-organized baseball leagues. My father was a manager or a coach most of the years his boys played. On a day you didn’t have a league game, you played a pick-up game at Municipal Field. In addition, we lived in a cul-de-sac. My father spray painted a home plate and bases in the circle. Murphy’s 5&10 sold soft rubber balls that were bigger than a baseball but smaller than a softball. The balls were called Pee-Wee balls. We played Pee-Wee ball on the street with a wooden bat. Records weren’t kept but I would estimate my batting average at about .800.
So, while I was genetically blessed with speed (put me on first and I’ll steal my way to third) it was my geography—surrounded by places to play the game—that made me a good baseball player. My baseball skills were developed playing actual games but also skill contests invented by young men with creative minds. “Off the Wall,” “Pick Off,” “Pitchback,” “Pitchout” (along with the classic “Pepper”) were popular games if only one or two neighborhood friends were out in the street.
We also invented a baseball game using dice. We would field a team of players from our baseball card collections, roll the dice and record the outcome for each player. How’s this for a memory test: 2= HR, 3=Walk, 4=Double, 5=Groundout, Six=Single, 7=Flyout, 8=Groundout, 9=Flyout, 10=Strikeout, 11=Double Play, 12=Triple.
I was lucky to experience two years of Pony League baseball. One of those years resulted in a great comeback in the second half of the season. I was able to share my experience in a Post-Gazette article in April of 2012. When the article was published, I was contacted by the Pony League office and asked to have the article posted on their website. I was also invited to attend a game at the Pony League World Series. Because my email was listed at the end of the piece, I received emails from people around the country who had a similar “comeback” story in their life and they shared it with me. (Most—if not all—people who played Pony League baseball never knew PONY is an acronym for “Protect our Nation’s Youth”).
The PG article is attached here for your reading pleasure. I’m also attaching an image of the baseball card of my favorite Pirate player growing up. While Roberto and Richie Hebner (like Richie, I threw right, batted left and played third base) were favorites, the No. 1 spot went to Al Oliver. Like Al, I was a line drive hitter, able to hit to all fields.
If you’re a fan of baseball from my era, you have to ask a question I’ve asked: “Why isn’t Al Oliver in the Baseball Hall of Fame??”
