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| That's me on the left, acting like I'm pitching even though I've never, ever pitched. And that's John at right. |
There's not much a 10-year-old in those days had to worry about.
But on this date in history, one thing was way more important than anything else. Baseball. My team was playing for the minor league championship, and the excitement around town was enormous. Huge. I think Main Street practically exploded. I half expected Howard Cosell to show up to announce the game.
We were sponsored by Custom Farm Equipment, nicknamed the "Indians" (a major no-no today, but not back then). I was the team's shortstop and my brother John was one of our relief pitchers. As winners of the first half of the season, we had a game that night against the Springboro Lion's Club, winners of the second half of the season.
All games were at the Springboro Park, at the one and only Little League field in town. I was under the impression a hundred million people were going to be there, pretty significant since Springboro only had like 312 residents and one traffic light at the time.
I remember my mom taking this picture of the two of us, no doubt thinking that our side yard on Redbud Drive was more scenic than the actual field we played on (hey, she's always been a visionary). I remember, once finally arriving at the field, being amazed at how crowded the stands were (it felt like Riverfront Stadium). And I remember feeling so important when someone (not Howard Cosell) announced over a sound system that I was the starting shortstop.
It was an awesome atmosphere.
I felt so fortunate to be part of it...for exactly 12-and-a-half minutes.
That's how long it took the Lion's Club "Reds" to score something like 44 runs in the first inning. I tell you, it was more like a track meet. If I ever got hot standing out there in the field, I was cooled off by the "whish" of all the opposing runners flying by me. I think it was the first time in the history of the world that a team was run-ruled before it ever got up to bat. It was awful.
For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be a Chicago Cubs fan.
July 21, 1970 brought my first lesson in humility.
Afterward, our coach did his best to cheer us up. He stood in front of us just outside the dugout holding our second-place team trophy (we players did not get one for ourselves, unlike today when everyone gets a trophy, even the sixth place teams that should've just stayed home all summer; don't get me started).
"I'm so proud of you guys," he said, clutching the trophy tightly. "You played your best all season long, and -- except for today -- you really played well. I'm actually very happy with this season."
His words were nice, but all I could think of was, "I'll bet your happy. You get to take that trophy home with you. All I'm taking home is John, and his shoes stink."
I'm pretty sure I would have put that on Facebook, if we'd have had it at the time.
John and I would've then fought for days.
This picture then would have been a future reminder of one of the worst days of my life.
But, since I just found this picture the other day when I was looking through some boxes, it actually serves as a reminder of one of the best days of my life, even though it was a day when our team lost.
It's a photo of my childhood, when life was fun. It's of life with my brother, showing a connection we've had through the years. And it is about baseball, which to this day remains one of the biggest loves of my life.
Like the commercial says, "Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet."
And, of course, Marcia. There will always be Marcia.