We had our own field, Pete, Dan, Ed and I. It was located in a large open lot surrounded by the back ends of houses. Burr Street was on the north, Sims Lane on the west and Fenner Street to the south. At the far east was Burton Street. Pete lived on Fenner Street and the field wasn’t far from his small backyard. The field was a bit soggy from time to time but it was ours for the summer.
This was in Cazenovia, New York and the year was 1961. We were twelve years old.
We woke up thinking about baseball. We were either talking about it, playing it or on our way to play it all day every day. We all had baseball card collections and bought Sport magazine. We watched the Big Leaguers play weekends as best we could on our small black and white sets.
I had Jackie Robinson six finger outfielders glove. It was a good glove. It went over the bike handle everywhere I went. I made many a great catch with that glove.
My hero was Jimmy Piersall. He was a good hitter but he was mostly known for his outstanding catches in centerfield. He played for the Cleveland Indians that year.
Every Sunday I would open the sports section of the newspaper hoping to see a photograph of Jimmy leaping high on an outfield wall to snatch away some guys home run. He was also known to be a wild man. He entertained folks in several ways.
Anyway we four were good ballplayers. We were good enough but not great. The Great Ball Players, the natural athletes, played in a field near Burton Street school about four hundred yards to the north of us. Many were also older than us. We were also a bit nerdy. We were more apt to talk at length about the latest Twilight Zone episode than those other guys.
Pete had just moved to Caz a year or two earlier. He was a wise guy. Sarcastic and funny. He was thin, a bit pale and wore glasses. His mother was a tormented woman. She always had a troubled and fearful look on her face. One day when we stopped in for a snack she snapped at Pete after one of his sarcastic comments. She leaned against the kitchen counter for a second then dropped to her knees begging God to forgive her for her moment of anger. My twelve year old eyes widened some witnessing that.
Pete’s mother had convinced his older brother that the priesthood was his calling. This made the family a bit more important to many folks in Cazenovia. Tim was going to be a priest. He did attend a seminary for a while but eventually became a Chicago banker. Well, close enough.
Dan was taller than the rest of us. A bit gangly. He had a few nervous ticks. Cleared his throat a lot. Blinked a lot. His mother wanted the perfect family. Like most families in those days meat was included in every meal. Dan’s mother, after reading all those recommendations made up by the meat industry, included a lot of organ meat in her meals. It was gross even for us kids brought up on meat. Lots of liver and kidneys and even tongue and gizzards were served up. After a few of those well intentioned meals I did not accept too many invitations to that house for supper.
Ed came from an All American family. His father was an insurance salesman. His mother worked at the school. She was a real nice lady. There was just Ed and his sister. That was a little unusual back then. Many families had four or five kids.
Ed had his own unusual story. Four or five years earlier he was innocently watching a ball game when a batter became enraged after striking out and threw his bat. It struck Ed in the temple, cracking his skull. It was touch and go for a while but he recovered. He now had a metal plate where his temporal bone used to be. This made him a celebrity around town for a while. There would be no football playing for Ed however.
There were few interruptions to our ball playing that summer. Once in a while I would go out to West Lake Road and visit my old buddy, my best friend Steve but most of my time was spent on that damp field with Pete, Ed and Dan.
We went through a lot of baseballs. We would use them until they were totally worn out. Taped up balls were common. We had to make the most of what we had. Our allowances were 25 or 50 cents.
Baseballs were important but so was candy.
One day we were tossing an old battered ball around near the street when my Uncle Don drove by. We all waved. He was a very quiet man. He was stationed in New Guinea during the war. A few days later he appeared in his car again. This time he stopped and dropped four or five baseballs out the window.
Not only were these new baseballs but they were rubber coated baseballs! They were the same size and weight as regular baseballs but had that rubber coating that prevented them from becoming waterlogged. Perfect! We were all set for quite a while. Good old Uncle Don!
Rain or shine not much stopped us from playing. Bases were quite often rocks or sticks….typical for sandlot ball. We rarely thought about those guys playing up on the hill near the school. We rarely visited there. We were totally engrossed in our own games and baseball in general.
Towards the end of the summer we four ventured up to the school to check out one of the A team games. We thought we’d just chat a bit and see how everyone was doing. We also expected some, and some not so, good natured teasing.
Much to our surprise we were invited to play in a late afternoon game. First came the warm up. I played first base. My new teammate Carl grabbed a ground ball at shortstop, he hesitated a bit then fired that pill at me with everything he had. I think he expected me to miss it, drop it or even duck away. My baseball skills had improved dramatically that summer and even though that throw had more zip on it than I had ever seen before –I handled it.
So this was more than a friendly invitation to play ball-this was a test. The other fellows went through similar challenges. After a while these natural athletes gave us some grudging respect. We were a lot better ballplayers than they expected.
As we walked down that hill at sunset heading for home and supper we four felt good. We felt real good. All that summer playing had sorta paid off. We had held our own. We were a little bit cooler...even though that was not our goal at summer’s beginning..
Pete moved out of town to Owego a few months later. It made me sad for a while. He was my closest friend among our foursome. He went on to become an actuary. He also became a mountain climbing enthusiast.
He stopped by my apartment in 1978. He and his girlfriend had climbed many peaks in Europe and the Rockies. They even went to the Andes. Years later, with the internet and his brother, I found out that Pete’s luck had run out in 1985. He fell to his death from a cliff in the Rockies.
Dan, with his high grades, went on to attend an Ivy League school where he had a nervous breakdown. A complete breakdown. He became a well known panhandler in Syracuse for years and years. Someone said he is doing much better now. Sure hope so.
Ed, metal plate and all, became a successful engineer and raised a family down near Albany.
And I became whatever the hell I am.
Simple twists of fate.
It was a nice summer in Cazenovia and it came to that nice ending. Soon Del Shannon and ‘Runaway’ and then a bit later on the Beatles would replace Jimmy Piersall and Ted Kluszinski as folks that greatly interested me.
In 1974 I gave my extensive, well organised baseball card collection to the son of my boss because I felt sorry for the kid. A few weeks later I stopped by and the collection was strewn all over the living room. They were even using some of them to start fires in the fireplace. Regret…….oh regret. C’est la vie.
This was in Cazenovia, New York and the year was 1961. We were twelve years old.
We woke up thinking about baseball. We were either talking about it, playing it or on our way to play it all day every day. We all had baseball card collections and bought Sport magazine. We watched the Big Leaguers play weekends as best we could on our small black and white sets.
I had Jackie Robinson six finger outfielders glove. It was a good glove. It went over the bike handle everywhere I went. I made many a great catch with that glove.
My hero was Jimmy Piersall. He was a good hitter but he was mostly known for his outstanding catches in centerfield. He played for the Cleveland Indians that year.
Every Sunday I would open the sports section of the newspaper hoping to see a photograph of Jimmy leaping high on an outfield wall to snatch away some guys home run. He was also known to be a wild man. He entertained folks in several ways.
Anyway we four were good ballplayers. We were good enough but not great. The Great Ball Players, the natural athletes, played in a field near Burton Street school about four hundred yards to the north of us. Many were also older than us. We were also a bit nerdy. We were more apt to talk at length about the latest Twilight Zone episode than those other guys.
Pete had just moved to Caz a year or two earlier. He was a wise guy. Sarcastic and funny. He was thin, a bit pale and wore glasses. His mother was a tormented woman. She always had a troubled and fearful look on her face. One day when we stopped in for a snack she snapped at Pete after one of his sarcastic comments. She leaned against the kitchen counter for a second then dropped to her knees begging God to forgive her for her moment of anger. My twelve year old eyes widened some witnessing that.
Pete’s mother had convinced his older brother that the priesthood was his calling. This made the family a bit more important to many folks in Cazenovia. Tim was going to be a priest. He did attend a seminary for a while but eventually became a Chicago banker. Well, close enough.
Dan was taller than the rest of us. A bit gangly. He had a few nervous ticks. Cleared his throat a lot. Blinked a lot. His mother wanted the perfect family. Like most families in those days meat was included in every meal. Dan’s mother, after reading all those recommendations made up by the meat industry, included a lot of organ meat in her meals. It was gross even for us kids brought up on meat. Lots of liver and kidneys and even tongue and gizzards were served up. After a few of those well intentioned meals I did not accept too many invitations to that house for supper.
Ed came from an All American family. His father was an insurance salesman. His mother worked at the school. She was a real nice lady. There was just Ed and his sister. That was a little unusual back then. Many families had four or five kids.
Ed had his own unusual story. Four or five years earlier he was innocently watching a ball game when a batter became enraged after striking out and threw his bat. It struck Ed in the temple, cracking his skull. It was touch and go for a while but he recovered. He now had a metal plate where his temporal bone used to be. This made him a celebrity around town for a while. There would be no football playing for Ed however.
There were few interruptions to our ball playing that summer. Once in a while I would go out to West Lake Road and visit my old buddy, my best friend Steve but most of my time was spent on that damp field with Pete, Ed and Dan.
We went through a lot of baseballs. We would use them until they were totally worn out. Taped up balls were common. We had to make the most of what we had. Our allowances were 25 or 50 cents.
Baseballs were important but so was candy.
One day we were tossing an old battered ball around near the street when my Uncle Don drove by. We all waved. He was a very quiet man. He was stationed in New Guinea during the war. A few days later he appeared in his car again. This time he stopped and dropped four or five baseballs out the window.
Not only were these new baseballs but they were rubber coated baseballs! They were the same size and weight as regular baseballs but had that rubber coating that prevented them from becoming waterlogged. Perfect! We were all set for quite a while. Good old Uncle Don!
Rain or shine not much stopped us from playing. Bases were quite often rocks or sticks….typical for sandlot ball. We rarely thought about those guys playing up on the hill near the school. We rarely visited there. We were totally engrossed in our own games and baseball in general.
Towards the end of the summer we four ventured up to the school to check out one of the A team games. We thought we’d just chat a bit and see how everyone was doing. We also expected some, and some not so, good natured teasing.
Much to our surprise we were invited to play in a late afternoon game. First came the warm up. I played first base. My new teammate Carl grabbed a ground ball at shortstop, he hesitated a bit then fired that pill at me with everything he had. I think he expected me to miss it, drop it or even duck away. My baseball skills had improved dramatically that summer and even though that throw had more zip on it than I had ever seen before –I handled it.
So this was more than a friendly invitation to play ball-this was a test. The other fellows went through similar challenges. After a while these natural athletes gave us some grudging respect. We were a lot better ballplayers than they expected.
As we walked down that hill at sunset heading for home and supper we four felt good. We felt real good. All that summer playing had sorta paid off. We had held our own. We were a little bit cooler...even though that was not our goal at summer’s beginning..
Pete moved out of town to Owego a few months later. It made me sad for a while. He was my closest friend among our foursome. He went on to become an actuary. He also became a mountain climbing enthusiast.
He stopped by my apartment in 1978. He and his girlfriend had climbed many peaks in Europe and the Rockies. They even went to the Andes. Years later, with the internet and his brother, I found out that Pete’s luck had run out in 1985. He fell to his death from a cliff in the Rockies.
Dan, with his high grades, went on to attend an Ivy League school where he had a nervous breakdown. A complete breakdown. He became a well known panhandler in Syracuse for years and years. Someone said he is doing much better now. Sure hope so.
Ed, metal plate and all, became a successful engineer and raised a family down near Albany.
And I became whatever the hell I am.
Simple twists of fate.
It was a nice summer in Cazenovia and it came to that nice ending. Soon Del Shannon and ‘Runaway’ and then a bit later on the Beatles would replace Jimmy Piersall and Ted Kluszinski as folks that greatly interested me.
In 1974 I gave my extensive, well organised baseball card collection to the son of my boss because I felt sorry for the kid. A few weeks later I stopped by and the collection was strewn all over the living room. They were even using some of them to start fires in the fireplace. Regret…….oh regret. C’est la vie.