There was something magical way back then about being ten years old on a beautiful summer day, standing alone in a weed-infested right field, hearing the crack of the bat and seeing the ball arc gracefully across a clear blue sky and watching it descend, growing larger and larger while your teammates shout encouragingly, “Catch this one, Butterfingers!” And feeling the sharp pain as the ball bounced off your head. Those were the golden days!
Statistically, right field gets the least action, but I was never completely safe from concussions. I prayed more fervently there than in church. “Lord, please don’t let there be any lefties batting today. But if a southpaw comes up, please, no line drives!”
I could handle grounders, but the team didn’t like the way I ran alongside them till they slowed down. On a crucial play, I’d throw my body in front of the ball and maybe hold the hitter to a triple.
On the rare occasions when I was able to grab the bouncing ball while the runner was still rounding first, I’d haul back and heave it with all my might. I enjoyed seeing the ball fly fast and straight, usually into the grandstands . If it bounced into an adjoining ball field it usually threw that game into angry confusion.
There were no umpires for kids’ ballgames in those days. Every pitch, every foul or fair ball, every putout attempt could lead to a matter of opinions. And there were no parents in the stands urging us to accomplish the impossible.
As poorly as I played, I think I was happier than the current major leaguers who must cringe after a strikeout or a fielding error, weighed down by their enormous wealth like Dickens’ gloomy Ghost of Marley. He would have been much happier if he’d played right field instead of the stock market.
Imagine That 