As a child I remember going to the old Airbase ball fields. My dad was a
part-time baseball coach and worked some tiresome hours training a lot of young
boys. I was too young and way too small
to play organized sports at the time and hung around my older sister, Lucy when
we were out at the airbase. We played in a
small area of grass and trees and watched across an open air sewage ditch at
the ball fields where the teams practiced. The fields were dusty, hot, and
humid and the grassy area was a shade cooler.
While playing we had to be aware of snakes and insects that bite in the
sometimes tall grass.
My sister and I played many a game in the grass and trees
and watched a lot of wildlife come out from behind trees and get startled right
back where they came. We were explorers.
One of the reasons that the grassy area had grass was a huge cylindrical
concrete basin about four to five feet round and about four feet tall. It had two metal tubes, probably lead, on the
top facing each other and sprayed water in two arches into a concave dip of a
bowl with a drain. The tubes had running
cool clear, clean water coming from them.
It was built to be a water fountain but today would be an excess and
waste of resources. There was a small
step at the base of the basin that allowed small children, like me, to reach
the top part of the concrete and lean over to the spout and enjoy the water as
well. Sometimes different types of birds
would enjoy the water and the basin as also.
If the drain was stopped up by leaves or anything then the water would
overflow and dose the surrounding areas.
Thus helping in the growth of the grass nearby.
One of my favorite things to do when we were there was to
look for towers of mud structures that were anywhere from an inch to eight
inches tall usually in the mud nearby. These
were the homes or entrances to a crawdad hole.
Some people call them crayfish, but that just means that they aren’t
from our area. We would take a small
piece of raw bacon and tie a string through it and drop it into the hole of the
crawdad mound. As we lowered it we would
swing it back and forth like fishing.
Suddenly you would feel a pull on your string and you slowly started
pulling it up. It was an art form to get
it right, but once a crawdad had grabbed the bacon, they would not let go of it
even after you pulled it out of their hole.
We caught quite a few small ones and quite a few large ones. These were not the eating kind though because
they were to near the sewage creek and lived there as well. So, we let them go again. The thrill was in the capture and their size.
When we tired of the grassy area we would head toward a
sewage ditch also paved with concrete from a more industrial time. The water was a dark but clear green and you
could see all sorts of minnows and weeds growing in it. The ditch was maybe four feet wide and maybe
about 18 inches deep and a lot of the older boys jumped the ditch instead of
using the old green wooden bridge. If
one of them missed they weren’t in any major danger other than pride and
smelling funny in the hot sun. Mom was smart enough to keep us away from
playing in the ditch, but we wanted to use nets and catch the minnow and
sometimes small fish that came down the way.
When you crossed the bridge you would see the baseball
practice fields. They were old and torn
up and worn. They had been used during
World war two for several things and I was told in the fifties they were nice
ball fields. By the time I came around
they were a dust bowl with a broken down fence and backstop. The outfield blended into an area of tall
weeds and the unknown, behind that was Hawkin's Airfield still in use. The Backstop was a cyclone fence that looked
like a bulldozer had changed its mind in mid destruction. The bases were all worn out but in the right
positions, but the track to them could be deadly with uneven ground. The outfield was worse with uneven terrain
and holes. Once past the infield the
sand and dirt didn’t quit. You were in a
Dutch oven the entire time you were out there.
Horse flies and mosquitoes were constantly biting.
I later played ball here on a team that wasn't my dad's it
was just as hot and not as fun. I was
not fully coordinated then and was behind some of the others my age in playing
well. My only advantage was my fast
speed. I was a jackrabbit then. I just remember the heat and the effects it
had on all of us. Back then hydration
was not a science and the coaches kept us from water from the time we arrived
at Saturday practice at 7:30 am until noon.
Then we all ran for the concrete basin in the grassy area. Being the small one I was last, the bigger
boys were always first and the parched, sandy mouths had to wait for them to
guzzle their fill. If coaches thought
you were doing poorly, and had lost a lot of water from sweat, then they gave
you a salt tablet or two. My first coach
was an incredibly lean man who always had the most beat up baseball cap and a
five o’clock shadow and a huge chew of tobacco in his mouth. My memory of him includes the way he would
spit the tobacco out if we made a mistake and yell, "Stupid, stupid,
Stupid!" He reminded me of a
character from Andy Griffith except I was scared of him. Another memory of these days was meeting at
Rain's Elementary on Saturday mornings and all piling up in the back of a 55
Chevy pickup and lining the back rim of the bed of the truck and going down the
road to the air base. There were at least 20
of us boys bouncing and laughing in the bed bouncing and busting our back ends
on the rim of the truck bed. The only place you were not allowed to sit or lean
was the tailgate for fear of it opening.
As far as I know we never lost anyone out of the truck.
Baseball was and is a way of life in my family. I was not interested because of the lack of
ability when I was younger and some bad coach/player experiences along the
way. Part of me wished I could stay home
on Saturday Mornings to watch the cartoons, but the neighborhood was a baseball
group and you were expected to play and be there. I continued to play Little League in West
Jackson with a group called the Iroquois League. The team was sponsored by Parkview cleaners
and we had ragtag wool uniforms that were hand me downs from teams long
ago. I finally got on my dad’s winning
team in what was called Pony League. I
was older and wiser and a little bit better a ball player but my heart wasn’t
in it. Dad was a tough coach who had a
winning team. I was still smaller than
most of the others. Somewhere in the
season, I decided I have had enough and didn’t want to play ball any more. I wish I had stuck out the season, but I made
up my mind. Telling my dad that night
was the hardest thing I had to do. He
was always happy when I played any sports because they had been such a part of
his life. I pulled a stool next to his
chair and presented my case to him and quit the team. I felt both relieved and also like I had
failed. My dad didn’t get upset, though
I am sure there was some disappointment.
He told me that night how proud he was of me and that I could have the
courage to come tell him I didn’t want to play ball anymore. He told me he would help me find other things
that meant more to me. He kept his word
and helped and encouraged me with Theatre later in my life. My dad never ever made me feel like he was
anything less than proud of me. Baseball
stayed in my life with him as a coach and my family playing on various teams
and migrating to softball. Now my nephews have their stories of baseball and
sports to tell. Life truly goes in
circles and there is great joy in watching them achieve their victories as
well. Dad would still be proud.
