Baseball, Part 2

When we moved to Hiram, Ohio, in August 1956, I was about to enter seventh grade. I wouldn’t turn 12 until November. Hiram had no summer baseball teams for kids then, but Dad got together with some other interested parents and got Hiram hooked up with the Portage County Hot Stove League, which had teams organized by age.

Then the G League was available for youngsters 8 and 9 years old (my younger brother was in that one), and the next one up was F League, and I was in that one. (The youngest one was H League, and there  were older ones, too--E and D; Hiram soon had and both H and E, I think, but not D).

I still remember the first team gathering. The coach (who was it?) lined us up on the field beside the high school (dirt infield) and asked us who could play each position. He started with catcher. "Anybody ever play that?" he asked.

No response. I wasn't sure I wanted that position (I was afraid of bats swinging near my head), but I did want to start. So I raised my hand. And became the Hiram catcher for the rest of my career. 

I don't remember our record that first summer, but I remember our "uniforms": blue jeans, white T-shirts, red Hiram ball caps.

And I do remember one of the highlights of my life.

Hiram had a major celebration on the Fourth of July: parade, rides on the fire truck, picnic, free movie up at the college auditorium, fireworks display. And a baseball game became, for a while, a part of the routine.

And that first summer I hit a home run--a hard shot between the outfielders. I could not trot; I had to run as fast as I could. (Not all that fast.) I barely beat the throw home--didn't even slide. It was a feeling I'd never had before (and have had few times since!).

The following year we got uniforms (see pic), and we all felt like "real" baseball players.

When I reached E-League age, I played in nearby Garrettsville—made some good friends, won a lot of games. They already had a catcher, so I think I played 3rd, with great lack of distinction. But I could hit. That counted.

And then it was high school ball. We had no uniforms at first—just this: red pants, white sweatshirts, red ball caps. I’m surprised the other teams didn’t laugh when they saw us. (Probably they did.)

I was on the varsity from freshman year on—a starter at catcher. My freshman year I was afraid of the pitching and so choked up the bat and tried to poke singles through the infield. Didn’t work too often.

Later that year I did some pitching—Dad had taught me to throw a curve, a screwball, and something he called an “out drop.” And I did all right.

Gradually, our team got better, and by my senior year we had a pretty good group. Don’t wanna brag—but I will. I batted .451 that last year.

In the summer I got a call from a coach in nearby Windham. He wanted me to join their D-League team. I did. And it was not till then that I learned I wasn’t all that good.

They had an excellent catcher who had an arm about twice as good as mine—or more. (Though he was considerably more wild. Sometimes the coach would get annoyed with him for an errant throw, and I would get to catch.) Otherwise, I was somewhere in the infield or outfield.

I couldn’t believe how hard the pitchers threw—ours and those on the opposing teams. I was overmatched, and I knew it.

My playing-for-the-Tribe dreams ended very quickly.

But I had one more humiliation to endure before my “serious” career ended ...

TO BE CONTINUED ...