League Play

A Short Story by Rothya James

 I love baseball. I love how individual achievement interlocks with the play of the team. It’s the most perfect game ever devised. Where the losing team doesn’t run out of time, it runs out of opportunity. The one game with a natural ending, like a good book.

I started playing American Legion Baseball when I was around ten in the 1950s. I played in the D League, and when I got old enough I went to C League, then on to B League. My dad was the coach of the teams, and as my buddies and I progressed through the leagues, we became city champs. My brother and I spend summers with Dad and our pals, and those wonderful moments couldn’t have been better. It was all so beautifully innocent: the hot afternoons, the teamwork and boys club comradery, the pursuit for baseball perfection. If we played hard and listened to Dad, we won. And we won a lot.

When I got too old for the league, I was offered my very first job. I have no proof of this, but I suspect the employment came by way of my dad. The man that managed the league was good friends with him, and he was the same fellow that hired me to take care of the field and be the official scorekeeper.

Every summer day I was back at my favorite spot on the planet: the ballpark. I would rake in the infield, the pitcher’s mound, and around the bases. I would lay the chalk down for the foul lines to the outfield and the batter’s box – then water the dirt to keep it in place. And when the games started, I’d have the greatest seat in the house: right behind the backstop in full view of the field, registering the hits and recording the outs. It was the next best thing to actually playing the ballgame. And in a way, I didn’t really miss those fabulous afternoons playing ball with my dad and my cronies. It became an extension of the mix, and it pacified the emptiness that would have surely grown had I not had the job.

Each night after the games, I would call the local paper and give them a rundown on what took place. The scores and highlights; the top hitters and winning pitchers. Looking back it almost seems laughable that my ballgames and the results of them could be found in the sports page of the paper that next morning. It was a reflection of the innocence and sweetness of those times. The blissful simplicity. The uncomplicated decency that prevailed in the American culture then. It was a good time to grow up.

My last day on the job was not unlike any other day. I spent the summer night with my customary snow cone I always enjoyed while sitting behind the backstop, measuring the details of each game. Spectators would drop by to find out if their kid got an official hit or what inning was in play. The routine of everything was the same. And as I recall, I see nothing extraordinary about that last day except for the fact it was my last day.

That final day produced a milestone in my life that marked a transition from boyhood into young adulthood. At the time, I didn’t realize I would never be involved with organized baseball like that again. I played for my high school after little league but with different motives for the game. I played for the glory of a letter jacket and the notice of girls. But the games I played in little league was for the sheer joy of baseball and the marvelous friendships I experienced with the guys. The pride I felt for my dad being the coach. The memories I have of those games -  some are so vivid, so clear in the retentions of my mind - I feel I can reach out and touch them, hold them. They’ve been like old friends in my life, and I visit them whenever I feel lonely or disenchanted. In my heart, it made a hero of my dad. And you know what? He still is.

 © Rothya James Patterson