This week I am traveling back in time. In my mind I am going back sixty years—to the summer of 1950 or perhaps 1951 (it has been a long time, so I may be a little fuzzy on the exact year, but not the event I want to describe).
I am 12 or 13 years old, living in a "Mayberry"-type town—DeFuniak Springs, Florida. The summers are long and slow and hot. Several boys my age love the game of baseball, as do I. But there are no organized summer sports in DFS, only rag-tag, sandlot baseball, played among ourselves for the sheer fun of the game. Our "uniforms" are blue jeans (dungarees) or khaki pants (rolled up two or three "turns" from the ends of the legs), tee shirts, and high top black tennis shoes. Mr. Fred Hackett, who teaches Industrial Arts (Shop) in the local Junior High School, has an interest in us, and most mornings he will walk from his home to Harbeson Field to coach us. (I don't think Mr. Hackett ever owned a car. Wherever he went in town, he always walked). Occasionally, he is able to schedule a game with other teams in Bonifay or Crestview or Valparaiso or some other town within thirty or forty miles of home. Mr. Hackett is always able to arrange to get a school bus for our transportation.
The boys on the team range in age from 10 to l4. Some are better athletes than others, but we all love the game. Out of my memory, and in no particular order, here is a partial roster of players (all of them school mates): David (Bunny) Bloodworth, John Frank (Jack) Bloodworth, Jr., Larry Danley, Charles Carlin, Adrian Rivard, Ralph Cobb, Tommy McCall, Ben Randall Shelton, Clinton Rhodes, Ross Nowling, Jimmy Stewart, Sherrill Balcomb, Charles Marsh, Royce Bonds, as well as others.
On this particular day we have gone toValparaiso to play. Jack Bloodworth is usually the catcher, but he is a fine athlete, capable of playing other positions. Perhaps because we have a good lead on the other team, during the game Mr. Hackett moves Jack to third base and inserts Ross Nowling behind the plate. Like me, Ross doesn't get to play all that much and he is thrilled to get into the game. He is a strong, stocky kid. Somewhere late in the game Ross comes up to bat. The opposing pitcher throws him a "straight" (fast) ball. Ross, either luckily or otherwise, catches the pitch on the fat of the bat and drives it far over the center fielder's head and circles the bases for a homerun! He is ecstatic as he crosses home plate! So are the rest of us. It is Ross' moment of glory, a time when a sub becomes the hero.
Why do I remember Ross' homerun? Why do I remember his jubilation? Why do I remember the young boys of summer? Why do I remember Mr. Hackett? I don't know. Probably it was because we were having so much fun. Possibly it was because we were learning some lessons about life, though at the time we were not aware of learning anything other than trying to become better baseball players.
Mr. Hackett has been dead a long time. I do not know where the young boys of summer are today. A few, I know, are deceased. One of them, I understand, made it to the lower minor leagues. One became a District Attorney in south Florida. One followed his dad in becoming an educator and coach. Another became a medical doctor. I became a preacher.
That was all a long time ago in a world that bears little resemblance to the world I live in today. Our world has gained much in the last sixty years. But I am afraid we have lost some things along the way that likely will never be regained. Yet I am hopeful, because all across America we still have the young boys of summer.
Hugh Fulford
July 19, 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment