Do You Wish You Could Still Play?

“Do you wish you could still play baseball, Gramps?”

We were talking at my grandson’s little league ballpark, and I’d complimented him on a game well-played.

“Ahh…I think about it sometimes,” I said.  “It’s been a long time, but I was never as good as you are.” 

He beamed proudly and hugged me goodbye.

I gave the question more thought later, safely cocooned in my recliner chair.  It’s been since forever that I’ve thrown a baseball around, something I used to do all the time as a child.  Even as an adult—into my early-fifties, actually—I tossed the ball back and forth with a myriad of teammates, all of us chasing visions of grace and glory.

My father was one of my earliest playmates.  Struggling to balance my oversized glove on my hand, I’d make a stab at each of his tosses, only to have the ball bounce off the glove and hit me in the forehead.  It always hurt, but I was determined to look like a ballplayer. 

Eventually, I’d suggest we take a rest; after all, I only had one forehead.  Many of my early school pictures show me with a round, red mark above my eyebrows.

My neighbourhood pals were faithful playmates, too.  Two of us could while away a whole afternoon, throwing and catching, fantasizing about making remarkable plays on a major-league outfield. 

If there were three or four of us, we’d play “running bases”, where runners would attempt to steal from one base to the other without being tagged out.  It was not allowed to have two runners on one base, so when one guy took off, the other had to hotfoot it in the other direction.  Once in a while, there’d be a tremendous collision in the middle of the base-path.

If five or more of us gathered, a favourite game was “500”.  One player would hit the ball in the air, while the rest of us would mill around in the outfield trying to catch it.  Points were awarded for successfully fielding a grounder, one-hopper, or fly ball.  The first guy to reach five hundred points would take over at bat, but anyone who missed the ball lost points.  I think that’s where I first learned the concept of negative numbers.

Another game we liked was “work-ups”.  At school in the morning, we’d race for the ball-diamond, grabbing positions in the sequence we arrived—from batter, four of them, all the way to last-outfielder.  When a batter made an out, he’d trot to the outfield while everyone else moved up one position—from first-outfielder to third base, followed by shortstop, second base, first base, pitcher, and catcher.  It often took a long time to become one of the batters.

When the bell sounded to start classes, someone would instantly yell, “Same positions at recess!”  This was usually one of the guys who had worked his way into the infield, and didn’t want to lose his spot if he was late getting back.

Although I was far from being a gifted athlete, I was good enough to play with guys a year or two older.  Guys who were bigger and faster.  Guys who got to the diamond to stake their positions before I did.  Consequently, I spent a lot of time patrolling the outfield, only rarely making it to the infield, and almost never to the batter’s box. 

But that paid off for me.  When many of us began playing for real teams, I became a surprisingly good centerfielder—fast and able to track a ball right off the bat.  I was never much of a hitter, though, so it was my defensive prowess that kept me in the line-up.  Secretly, I would have preferred to play infield, mainly because I didn’t have a strong throwing arm.  Nobody ever said about me, “Watch this kid’s arm!  He’s got a gun out there!” 

Indeed, I was known as a ball-hawking centerfielder with a second baseman’s arm, and I got good at three-bouncing the ball to my cut-off man.  On one ignominious occasion, however, my throw actually rolled to a stop on the grass before it reached him.

But, as I told my grandson, it’s been a long time since I threw a baseball anywhere.  I do miss it, though.  There’s something about the feel of a baseball, the smell of the oiled-leather glove, the satisfying thok! as the ball smacks into the webbed pocket—evoking wonderful memories of so many yesterdays.  Watching baseball on television is no substitute; it’s the playing of the game that counts.

Anyway, the conversation with my grandson motivated me to give it a go once more, even if by myself, so I dug my old glove out of the sports-trunk in the basement, a scuffed ball still tucked in the pocket.  Outside—alone on the grass, wondering if wishes ever come true—I tossed the ball high in the air, over and over again.  Joyously at first, I settled under each ball as it dropped back down—trying the basket-catch made famous by Willie Mays, over-the-shoulder catches such as I used to make routinely, and even a behind-the-back catch or two.

Alas, I had to quit when my forehead got too sore.

I hope the red mark is gone before my grandson’s next game!

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2024}