Summer of '68.

 It was the summer of 1968. One year removed from the famed "summer of love". I was 8 years old and having a ball. Litterally. I had just started PeeWee League baseball in Gladewater, Texas. I would go on to play for several years and leagues. PeeWee, Little League, Pony League and Mustang League. I LOVED it! That being said, I feel like I should point out that I was only average at best, and that took a while to get to. I never even made the conversation when the powers that were were picking All Stars. But I played and had a blast! That summer (68) I could usually be found holding down the fort in right field. Right field, where they sent you if you were just a hair better than the worst player on the team. It didn't matter to me where I played as long as I got the chance. 

I can honestly say I was more than a little distracted standing out there in "outer Monrovia", since there were very few left handed kids to worry about hittng the ball to me. I had to pretty much entertain myself until we went in to bat. And I did so very well I might add.  One particular night will live on in infamy.  Some kid hit the ball off the end of his bat and it came slipping and slopping out to my area. I was oblivious.  It happened to coincide with the passing of the 8:30 Union Pacific Train. I was wrapped up watching the big locomotive pass and never saw the ball or heard the other players yelling at me! The center fielder had to run to right field and throw the ball in. Needless to say, that story has followed me for nearly sixty years. I laugh now, but I was horrified back then when I had to face the Coach and my teammates! Neither of those was as bad as listening to my older brother replay it for me and laugh...and point, too, as I recall! On another occasion,I attempted to throw a runner out from left field. Unfortunately I tried throwing the ball side armed. It had been raining earlier and the ball was wet. You know what happens to a leather ball when it gets wet? It gets slicker than snot on a door knob. The ball flew out of my hand and went straight sideways and out of the ball park into traffic passing on Pacific Street. Talk about embarrassed?! But, as time went on I got better and those mishaps were fewer and fewer.  

By the time I was 17 I had discovered that if I didn't have baseball practice in the afternoon I could pick up a few extra hours at work. That meant more money. That meant more fun. I said "Goodbye" to baseball and thus began the next forty-five years of working full time. It wasn't always fun like baseball, but it allowed me to do things a mediocre baseball player could never do. 

These days my shoulder is shot. Rotator cuff is worn to bone on bone. I can't throw a ball more than 5 feet, and even then it is severely painful. But I will always have the memory of those summer nights in the old ball park. Right field, trains, side arm throws and all. It was a great childhood.