Today there are little league teams in every town. When long lines of traffic moved like a herd of turtles, we knew a baseball game was getting all the attention. In pin stripes and white jersey's with knee high trousers the boys felt like they were in their second heaven.
But back when we were kids nothing really mattered. In sport shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes, we did the best we could do with what we had. Making cardboard bases was our pride and joy.
In the midst of lots of chatter, enough to drive any sane mind crazy, we chose sides. One boy tossed a baseball bat to another whom caught it with one hand. Shaped like a fist, one fist after another started to climb the handle. Last player to have a firm grip at the top of the handle chose first and the selection continued until all the players were accounted for.
A white little ball with stitches that resembled an appendix scar provided all the action. And there was enough action to go around for everybody.
The batter hit a slow roller on the first base foul line while the fielder hustled in from the edge of the outfield grass. Gawking eyes kept baseball fans spellbound while sitting on the edge of their seats. Slower and slower the ball went losing steam until it finally stopped just inches from the first base bag.
Another pop fly sent the boy at third tripping over some lawn chairs. Immediately three husky guys got him back on his feet and play resumed.
Meanwhile the action started to pick up speed at third base. A sharp hit grounder was scooped up and fired to second base before the guy wheeled and threw to first. Bingo! Double-play!
The hot-corner as third base was noted for, required somebody with a lot of muscle. Fast balls rolling over the infield grass were unforgiving. The long throw across the diamond from third to first required speed and accuracy. The boys needed to eat their Wheaties.
Occasionally a home run ball cleared the fence. Larry, one of the boys, loved to hit the long ball. With arms built like Popeye the Sailor Man, he often placed baseballs on the green canopy of the general store across the street. Eventually, the store keeper called the police and got the boys kicked out of the neighborhood.
But not all is easy going and fun. In baseball things often get a guy mad like a called third strike. The ball left the pitcher's hand from the far right side of the mound. Traveling faster than the speed of light it curved toward the inside of home plate. When it scrapped the batter's hand the umpire cocked his arm and called, "Strike!"
On a third strike the fans booed when the batter slammed down his bat. Then with one chest rubbing against another, a shouting match started as other players rushed off the bench toward the plate. Near bedlam broke loose.
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