I listen to the exploits of my Grandsons at their summer baseball programs. It brings back memories of my Plymouth childhood.
When I was 10-11 years of age (at 12 I had to go "beet-weeding" for the local Stokely Canning Company) I would ride my bike up to the Plymouth "Big Park" to play baseball. The Plymouth Recreation Department hired Warner Finke (he coached football, basketball and track at the High School) to run the summer program. If you showed up before 9:00 AM, you would get chosen to a team and you would play 7 innings of hardball. So I would jump on my used Schwinn bike and pedal to the park.
Finke would bring out a bag of baseballs and bats from the permanent shed. The bag always smelled musty. He would toss a bat to one of the boys. The youngster would catch the bat and whatever distance existed between his hand on the bat and the end of the handle would become part of the "choosing process". The guy catching the bat became one captain and Finke would name a second captain. The second captain would place his hand next to the original bat "hold". The original captain would then place his other hand next to the opponent's hand. Slowly the two captains worked their hands in alternate fashion to the bottom of the bat until they ran out of wood. At the bottom of every bat is a knob. The captains had to decide whether the knob could be grasped from the bottom by your fingers in a clawlike action. If clawzees were allowed and you got to grab the knob, you would choose first a member for your team. Usually a good hitter or pitcher was chosen first. Then in alternating format, each captain picked guys they wanted on their team. Some choices were made for talent. Some choices were for friendship. Last choices were to fill out the roster.
The process of getting chosen to a team was pretty simple. If you were older (15-16) and a good player, you were selected for your skills.
If your good buddy got chosen as a captain, you would have an agreed pact that he would chose you fairly early and of course you would chose him too. Skill was secondary.
The agonizing process was when you didn't have a close friend as a captain and you were one of the youngest kids and nobody cared if you were on their team or not. So you just waited and waited and waited until your name was called. I don't think I was ever the last selected but there were a few times I came close. The process didn't do much for your self-esteem.
The ultimate morning baseball game was when my Dad (Bucky) would show up and he would be one of the captains along with Finke. It made for excitement because both my Dad and Finke were left handed and could hit long home runs over the short stone fence in right field.
Actually it is really gratifying when your own Dad selects you for his team. It gives real meaning to "Dad, you are the greatest".
Yep. It is Aug.1. It is hot and humid. Baseball is the game of summer. I remember playing ball every morning. It was a good time. It was the best of times.
Go Dominic. Go Tommy. Go Mitchell. Go Grant. Go Collin (whoops, soccer is the game of choice). These are days of your life!
Love,
Dad