Found an Al Kaline fielder’s mitt on eBay today, same model as I used in my short-lived career with the Ben Franklin Bears during the Clawson, Michigan little league years of my youth, I’m guessing this was 1956 or 1957, or maybe not.
I remember my first year on the team, I played third base and got pretty good at it, which meant that I’d play most every game, but when it came to my turn at bat, I couldn’t get a hit to save myself or my team. Every time at bat, you could count on me striking out. It was a horrible year for me, until my Uncle Hal started working with me, coaching my fielding and hitting during the off season to bring me up to speed.
He took me over to Clawson Park, several blocks from my house, and we’d usually find an empty ball diamond to use, and he put me at home plate, armed with the bat of my choice and he’d fire pitch after pitch at me, I’d swing away, usually to no avail, since I’d close my eyes when the ball came at me, so I literally never saw the damned thing coming! He’d growl at me, time after time, “Keep your eye on the ball, Bar…keep your eye on the ball!” Uncle Hal had been an accomplished varsity athlete and had lettered every year at Hazel Park High in baseball and football, and as an adult, pitched one hell of a fast ball on a men’s softball league so he knew the ropes of the game well, and wasn’t making things easy for me, just because I was his nephew. Nor did I want him to, for I could see some small degrees of improvement. I began to get an occasional hit and began to lose my fear of the ball, and began to settle down with the bat and focus on that ball, and began to hit it more often and began to increase my confidence in just being up there standing at the plate. And I practiced, and I practiced some more until I got pretty good at smacking the ball, and there was a noticeable improvement in my fielding as well, all because my Uncle Hal took the time to work with me. And, I could see the pride he felt too, as I continued to make progress, and I’m pretty sure it gave him a sense of joy that I had seemingly turned a corner on a game he loved so well.
My second year in little league saw things turn around nicely for me… I started to, as we used to say on the field, “get a piece of the ball”, and away I went, smacking lots of singles, an occasional double, and imagined myself as fairly “red-hot” on third base or short stop. Hell, I even began catching some games but regardless of where I played, I was having the time of my life, now that I had conquered my fear of the ball, and began to enjoy playing the game immensely! This might have been the only sport I became… even if I’m having to say so myself, pretty good at!
I remember in the second year, the time came to play the dreaded Lutheran Church team, arguably the best assemblage of players in the league and undeniably the best team as well, usually coming out at the end of the season in first place. Lutheran Church had my old school mates Paul and Corky Kedrow, both great ball players, along with the much feared, all-star pitcher, a kid who had actually racked up at least one no-hitter in the league and whose dreaded fast ball actually seemed to hiss as it flew invisibly by any batter and into Jerry Gainey’s waiting catcher’s mitt, the inimitable Clint Knowels!
I remember awaiting my turn at bat that second season, the first time I would face Clint Knowels since I had undergone my transformation as a batter who no longer feared the hardball flying across home plate. I was clean-up, the fourth kid in line that inning to face Clint’s fast ball. The first kid went down, striking out and meeting nothing but air with his bat. The second kid went down after two foul balls, and a swing that met no resistance but sunlight. The next kid, who was noticeably terrified of coming to bat got lucky after Clint threw two pitches, the first, the ump called a strike, and the second came in low and clipped the kid on the foot closest to the pitcher, and the ump gave him a walk to first base.
My turn at bat, two out, one kid at first base, and last year’s strike out king now standing in the batter’s box, facing the deadliest fast ball pitcher in the league. I forgot to tell you, to make matters worse, Clint Knowels was a husky, tall kid for his age, and a south paw, a lefty, which for most of us made the spectacle of Clint’s ominous wind up even more daunting. He went into his stretch, glanced over at first, then looked toward home plate and unleashed a molecule burner about waist-high and as that bomb hissed toward me, I let my swing loose and met that ball in mid-air with a “Crack.” I tore out of the batter’s box toward first base as our guy was nearing second, and I could see my ball bounce where I sent it, just over the short-stops head and miles in front of the left fielder for a pretty tasty single. I tagged first, turned facing home plate and reveled in the moment, for I had at last gotten a base hit! And who’s to say? That just might have been my finest hour as an athlete, even as a kid!
The rest of the season was just so much fun, and often my mom would come to watch my games, but my dad, who always had a second job never came, except this one time, and I wasn’t even aware he had planned to come, so I never looked for him. It was just serendipitous that the one time my dad came with my mom to watch me play, for some reason, Coach Losey let me pitch, which I had never dreamed I’d ever do, and although I had never gotten a home run, ever before, on that afternoon, I got my one and only home run, bases loaded, and my dad had thought to bring the movie camera and got it all on film. Sometimes I believe things are fated to happen, and so, I believe it was for our family on that wonderful summer afternoon.