Play Ball!

  Over sixty years ago, I found myself on the baseball fields during the Summer in Cottonwood, Alabama.  It was the only Summer program for boys in the small town where I grew up.  The infield was red dirt, and the outfield was scruffy grass.  It was the home of some of the greatest baseball games of my life.

I was not a great athlete, probably not even a good one, but the sport I loved the most was baseball.  I followed major league teams after the Braves moved to Atlanta in 1966.  Hank Aaron was my hero then, but I had read about every great baseball player and team that ever existed.  I followed the stats daily and listened to hundreds of games on my transistor radio.

I remember my parents and grandparents attending almost every game, the hot dogs we ate on a school night, and my mother washing the red dirt out of my white uniforms.  I can still hear the wood bats hitting the ball, long before metal bats found their way onto the fields.   I remember every coach that ever gave up his time to help make the dreams of this young kid come true. 

I remember most of the names of the various teams that I played on, including Beall Peanut, G & W Milling Company, Lewis Brothers, Bank of Cottonwood, and many more.  I can see those uniforms and the players that wore them as surely as if they were an old movie on television.

This past weekend, I watched two of my grandsons play baseball.  It was far removed from the primitive fields of the early 1960s where I played.  Andrew is seven years old and this is his first year out of T-Ball.  I do not recall playing at that early age, but it is so much fun to watch, especially if it is your grandchild.

Will is twelve and is growing taller by the month.  He plays first base, like I did, and pitches, also like I did.  The difference is he plays on a manicured field, wears uniforms like I could never have imagined, has his own bat, and like every other player, has his own bag.

Will did not have a great day at the plate but kept the other team scoreless in four innings of pitching.  It is tough playing under pressure when you are twelve, but he manages it well.  Though our experiences differ, our love for the game is the same.

It is a challenge when you have four grandchildren playing different sports at different times in different locations, all at least two hours away from our home.  This past weekend, as we debated where we could travel and who we could watch, my wife reminded me of how often I had spoken about how my grandfather was at every game I played.  

I wonder if my grandchildren, who play more sports and have so many more activities than I ever did, will remember Granny and Granddaddy applauding for them from the stands.  It does not really matter, I suppose, as long as they have just one memory of us cheering for them.  

A quarter of a century after my grandfather and father passed away, I can still remember them in the stands.  I finally understand the joy they must have felt watching their son and grandson on the field.  

In the meantime, no matter where I am I feel the same excitement when I hear the umpire shout out those words time-honored words, “Play Ball”.

Dan Ponder can be reached at [email protected]