October 10

Something there is about October and us Little League boys that just won’t let baseball pass unnoticed. I have had three connections from the old Pittsfield South League in the past two days – dredging up all kinds of images: smells, sights, sounds -whole scenes that all took place 50 plus years ago. Very strange…

But maybe not – Baseball was the center of the universe during that short time between age 9 and 12, from in just Spring until August with Little League, and then the fantasy follow up of the big boys through the World Series. Playing ball was what we did – it was our job, our communion, all that mattered. Or my birthday each year I would ask for five new baseballs from my grandparents, in advance (August 15 was far too late in the season for such a treasure), and they would deliver - a luxury. Each ball came in its own cardboard box nestled in tissue paper, and smelled of wax and vanilla. The hide was smooth and the seams perfect. I would use them one at a time, first only to play catch, then run down, then finally pick up games. Eventually they would be gone – lost in the tall grass beyond the playing field, hit too far and into the river, or nabbed by the dog who had other sport in mind.

Pittsfield had the double A team for the Red Sox at old Waconah Park (which vaguely resembled Fenway, but with a much lower ”monster”) and some fine players at the high school level, some of whom went on to play some pretty good ball in the majors - Mark Belanger shortstop for the Orioles and Tommy Grieve center field and then General Manager for Texas in particular. Tommy and I were on the same Little League team, the Elks Club, and he was far better at 9 than I was at 12. At that point I had some seniority and experience and as the catcher had a certain standing at the heart of the beast, but we all saw that the little blond kid could hit the hell out of the ball and was something special. The last time I saw him up close and personal was at Clapp Park in Pittsfield in the late ‘60’s where I went to throw a Frisbee with a girl friend and he was there tossing a ball around. He had just been drafted by the Washington Senators and I barely recognized the strapping young man he had become at 19. We chatted briefly and went our ways and that was that. Later, much later and still, I wonder: Was he GM of the Rangers when Bush was an owner? Were they buddies? Did Tommy like music (his father had been a music teacher and band leader)? Did he remember the bushy eyebrows of coach Lyons and the damp cement smell of the dirt floor dugout at Demming Park field where we played? Where is he now?

I still stay up too late to listen to the West Coast playoff games, and will probably do the same when the Series starts, even if the Red Sox don’t seem to have it this year. Such is the influence of youth – I’ll have to remember that for Merlin…