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Nostalgia September 2016

Musings of an Undefeated Matriarch

Summer Softball Games

By Sharon Kennedy

From the trained eye, our games lacked even a hint of sophistication, but we didn’t care. It was the fun that was important, not strict adherence to baseball rules. And that’s what we called it — baseball. Even when we played with a wiffle ball, it was baseball.

The summer I was 11 was the summer of non-stop softball games. They were our source of entertainment after evening chores. We hurried through the daily routine which meant feeding the pigs and chickens, milking the cows, putting them out to pasture, mucking stalls, and washing milk utensils. When the work was finished, the neighbor kids gathered in our front yard and the game was on.

Even when the mosquitoes were so thick we could hardly see each other, we didn’t quit until it was too dark to see the ball. There were 10 of us who gathered for the nightly game. We were a motley group, some having outstanding ability to pitch, catch, field, hit, or run, while others had no ability beyond yelling. There was no such thing as a pre-game warm up unless you count Roger McCrary’s habit of climbing our maple tree and hanging from his knees.
   
I don’t remember if there was a glove among us, but I know we had plenty of bats and at least one good softball. What comprised our bases is lost to memory. They could have been anything from sticks of wood to big stones to gunny sacks stuffed with straw and secured with pieces of binder twine. We were particular about only one thing. The runner had to touch the base and not move it too far from its original position or carry it home with him.

We didn’t own a lawnmower and if our cows hadn’t chewed the grass to a desired height, the game was held down the road at McCrary’s. Their yard wasn’t as good as ours. There were too many obstacles to maneuver around and too many distractions so the game never lasted very long. There was always something interesting to see and divert our attention like new kittens or a litter of pigs. Then there were the dogs to contend with. Our dogs stayed clear of the ball field, but the McCrary dogs wanted to play along with us.

I remember one night when the game was going good at our place when out of nowhere a stranger’s car raced down our gravel road. My cousin’s dog, Ringo, left the yard and ran for the car. Ringo’s greatest joy in life was chasing cars. He died doing what he loved best. I don’t remember if he crawled to the ditch or if the boys dragged him there, but that’s where he breathed his last. My cousin was heartbroken. I’m sure we consoled her, but the game couldn’t stop because of her dead dog.

Like the big leagues, the only time games were called was on account of rain. If a kid got hit from one of Rex McCrary’s line drives or a dog died, too bad, the game went on, unless, of course, it was our dog. That was an entirely different matter.

From the trained eye, our games lacked even a hint of sophistication, but we didn’t care.

It was the fun that was important, not strict adherence to baseball rules. And that’s what we called it — baseball. Even when we played with a wiffle ball, it was baseball. First up was decided by the hand that landed on the top of the bat. Order of batters was decided by who yelled the loudest. Number of outs might have reached four if one out was contested.

So there you have it. Farm kids on the side road knew how to make their own entertainment without the aid of electronic gizmos or expensive four-wheelers. When the night’s game was over and the other kids went home, it was time to get out the Mason jars and catch lightning bugs. The tall grass in the south field was full of blinking fireflies, and we had no problem catching them. Before Mom called us in, Jude and I sat on the porch rockers and watched those bugs light the night, but we always released them before going into the house.

A new school year meant it was time to focus on homework, not home runs. The end of that summer also signaled the end of nightly games. I don’t recall why our one and only ball season was 1958, but it gave enough memories to last a lifetime.

Rex, my sister, and some of the others are gone now, but my old diary testifies to the fun we had one special summer when we were young.

 

You know what I mean, don’t you?

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