Yes, It Happened to Me

Yes, It Happened to Me
         
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out."
Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1863-1940)

         As a boy of 14 in 1959, baseball was my life. My summer was devoted to the game. I ate, slept, and drank of the sport. It was the National Pastime. I collected and traded baseball cards with my friends. It was that summer that I gained the right to play with the small-town American Legion Team. I was the youngest of 18 teenagers to make the squad. I was plucky, for my age, though somewhat plump. I was a left handed outfielder/pitcher. Don Page, the manager, stimulated me to try out for the team that summer. It was a thrill for this dark, curly headed rookie, to represent the hometown nine, knowing well, my playing time would be sparse at best.

         At the time I was in all likelihood just five foot tall, near 160 pounds in weight, hardheaded as a mule, and unafraid on the baseball diamond or in the batter's box. However, my greatest potency, I possessed an materializing "rifle arm!" For the most part my playing time would be spent in left field, if and when the opportunities presented themselves. I did get to pitch plenty of batting practice as the manager wanted everyone to have the experience of facing a "southpaw." I tended every practice session and suited up for every game home or away. I was proud to be an Iola Cardinal. The Legion had always been called the Cardinals for as long as I could remember. I had been a regular fan for several years, attending all of their home games. I longed to fill the shoes of such great former pitchers such as Jack Adair and Lou Herman. Both of these guys were outstanding in their own right. Jack even had a short stint in the "Big Dance", also known as the Major Leagues.

         Unfortunately, for me, the team that summer was a captivating and scrappy bunch. Very few times did they lose a game and more often than not they played games that were very close in runs scored. Our roster possessed such talented players as David Robinson, Tom Shaw, John Masterson, Ron Emmons, Warren Sicka, the Hart brothers, Marion Littlepage, Larry Harlin, Dennis Harper, and several others. During that summer I was only introduced in the lineup late in the game. This presented but a few situations where I actually got to take the field. I was presented with even fewer opportunities to make a play while combing the outfield. I batted very few times with some success and some disappointments. Never discouraged, I gave my all while playing or "picking up pine" on the bench. I was a Cardinal through and through. I was proud to wear that old wool uniform.

         I must digress at this point. Upon making the team after lengthy tryouts, I was issued the uniform which bore the number 16. I was ecstatic. This was the number worn by none other than Whitey Ford of the New York Yankee's. I could not have been happier. As fate would have it, I wore that number the rest of my American Legion career. It was my lucky number then and is to this day. It was an auspicious beginning for this rough and tumble baseball player. I will never forget that feeling I had each and every time I wore that itchy uniform in a game. I always felt special when I was decked out in that baseball get up.

         That summer we won far more games than we lost. Most were close in score and we were never "blown out" of a competition. We represented a Kansas town that barely counted six thousand in population. However, our schedule included teams of much larger cities across the state such as Chanute, Parsons, Eldorado, Independence, Coffeyville, Pittsburgh, Topeka, Ottawa, and Lawrence. We also played in towns that were of comparable size and some a bit smaller. The smaller towns included the likes of Moran, Garnett, Mound City, Blue Mound, Pleasanton and Humboldt. The size of the town made little difference to the Iola Nine. We just wanted to play baseball. That summer we played often and hard. We loved the competition and the challenge of a tight game. Don Page, our manager, had spent several seasons at a nearby college, as an assistant coach. He knew the game and how to motivate players. Can't say I enjoyed my time on the bench as much as playing, but I had to "earn my spurs" and take advantage of every minute of playing time.

         The final game of the season the team traveled to Pleasanton a burg but 20 miles form our hometown. As with every away game we headed to the playing field in a caravan of four or five cars. Upon arriving at the diamond and to our utter amazement, the local grounds keeper was herding several head of grazing cattle away from the outfield area of the ball park. This was an eye opener, but we didn't care. The outfield grass was surrounded by a tall corn field. It represented the fence. The ground rules on that field were such that a fly ball that hit in the corn field was to be a home run. However, any ball rolling or bouncing into the corn would be playable. That is, if the ball could be found. We were there to spank the local nine in a game of baseball. While we were warming up and taking some batting practice, the locals began to fill the stands in anticipation of a victory by their boys. Our coach called us into the dugout. There he announced the starting lineup. As usual, yours truly would begin the game residing on a pine bench.

         At the time American Legion Baseball games consisted of just seven innings. Since we were the visitors, we batted first. It was a good inning as we scored three quick runs. We held our opponents scoreless for five innings. We had built a 5 to 0 edge through that period. With two out in the bottom of the fifth, the local boys scored four runs. The game had gotten close. The sixth and our seventh inning neither team scored. However, our left fielder, turned an ankle. He had to be removed from the game. Our coach paraded back and forth along the bench. To my great joy and surprise, he directed to me to warm up and go to right field. In an instant I was behind the dugout preparing to go in the game in the bottom of the seventh inning. I was elated to be given the chance to play that day.

         As I took the field in the bottom of the seventh inning I was filled with cheer to be on the field no matter the inning or the score. I took my position and occasionally looked and listened for instruction from my coach, sitting in the dugout, as to where to position myself with each batter coming to the plate. The first two batters grounded out. Man this day was a piece of cake. The next batter, a big strapping farm boy with arms the size of trees strode to the plate. I gazed at my manager. He waved for me to play deep and guard the foul line. I did as I was instructed. The first pitch was called a ball by the umpire. The next two pitches he fouled off. By now I was relaxing at my position. This was a big mistake. On the next pitch that tank of a farm boy smacked a high hard fast ball. The sound of that stoke was like none I had ever heard before. I watched the arc of that jolt of a hit, I went back, back, back, and then it happened. I tripped and went down sliding through a freshly laid "cow pie." Splash, as I went slipping through that brown pile of excrement. Not to be deterred, I jumped up to track down the ball. It had bounced into the corn field. I quickly found the white sphere and threw to Tom Shaw, the cutoff man. Tom, possessing an arm like a cannon, whirled and threw the white pill homeward. Our catcher was in position to receive the relay from Tom. Blocking the plate, the catcher caught the incoming laser and applied the tag to the oncoming runner. After the dust settled, the home plate umpire yelled for all to hear, "You're out!!!" Game over. The Cardinals had once again prevailed. I was, covered in fresh cow dung yet jubilant for my part in the final play.

         I didn't strike out that day nor did I drop the fly ball or make an error. None will remember that throw of mine to Tom Shaw which contributed to the last out in the bottom of the seventh. All, including me, will be remembered as that young stoutly built ball player who challenged the slushy trip through a pile of freshly placed cow dung to assist in the final play. Fortunately for that young ball player there were no cameras that day, video or otherwise. It was embedded in his memory forever. "It was a sad day in Dungville, the big lefty had made a memorable splash!"

"Oh,somewhere in this favored land the sun shone brightly;
The band was playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts beamed lightly,
And somewhere men were laughing, and somewhere children did dash;
But there is no joy in Dungville - the Big Lefty did splash!"
Artemis Quill (1944 - )


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