As a boy growing up in the sixties, summers meant leaving the house after breakfast, maybe returning for lunch, then back out until sunset or dinner. In the neighborhood of West Lyndon, this usually meant baseball all day. There were some days occupied in some other manner, but baseball was the main activity. This is before aluminum bats, all our bats were wood. I pity the people that have grown up without the satisfying sound and feel of a wooden bat connecting with the ball. Fixing cracked bats came part and parcel to playing and is no doubt a lost art.
In our basements, we carefully screwed the splintered bat back together. Making sure you choose the right screw from the mason jars. Neither too short, too long, too thick or too thin. Identifying the perfect spot, or more likely, spots, to insert these screws. Attempting to completely close the gap, making the bat once again useful. After the mechanical work is done, the all important taping could commence. Black electrical tape was the preferred tape, semi-elastic and strangely, gratifyingly, shiny. This was the penultimate tape, until my Uncle Ed, supplied me with rolls of a non-shiny, more elastic, self stick tape. His employer, Armstrong, was happy to supply this tape, or so I was told. This tape was superior, owing to the ability to apply the tape much tighter, thus, a stronger bat resulted.
Bats fixed, we all gathered on the vacant lot between two homes on my street, For two weeks each summer, the local Mennonite church would construct a large canvas tent for their revival meetings. This caused us to move the games to the lot across the street from my house. This lot was inferior to our regular spot. My grandparents would eventually build a house on this lot, but at that time, it was sloped with several large trees dotted throughout. Made for some interesting ground rules. We didn’t mind all that much, as the large tent made for some great games of tag, hide and seek and general tomfoolery as we darted in and out, around the large poles, diving over hay bales that they had placed inside. The smell inside that tent, hot canvas, hemp rope and hay has never left my olfactory sense.
Gathering at whichever field, the two oldest would choose sides. This involved tossing of a bat from one to another. The receiver catches the bat one handed in a closed fist. They alternately place their fists tightly on top of the other, progressing up the bat until one of them can place a thumb squarely on the top of the bat knob. Before this can be successfully done, rules must be agreed upon. Can you use the gap between your index and forefinger, like Moe poking Curly in the eyes, instead of a fist? Can you expand the fingers in your fist to stretch your thumb to the knob, touching the previous fist with only the end of the pinky? Can you anchor your elbow on your opponents fist, using your forearm to extend up the bat, reaching the knob with your thumb. There were a lot of tactics involved and rules had to be established. Once the bat toss was complete, sides could be chosen, positions decided, the game could start.
We played hardball, using sand filled bases that one of the mothers had made. These bases were a strange, faded, maroon color, not that we minded. One fateful game ended when a well hit fly ball, soared directly through a third floor window, in right field foul territory. It was the only ball we had. This house had been recently bought, we did not know the occupants, other than they had a girl in high school. We went to the door, apologized, offering to pay for repairs and requested the return of our ball. The lady refused. Game over.
The next day one of our parents, along with the money we pooled, returned to the house. She learned that the people’s name was Schaeffer, (like the beer), a tidbit that will become an issue later. They were not going to the return the ball and requested that we start playing with a softball, as they would not carry as far. We were not happy, losing a ball, but, the softball request seemed reasonable. So that is what we did, we started playing softball. The house, was still in foul territory, and we retrieved a number of balls from their yard in the next days.
Mrs. Shaeffer then started to sit in her yard as we played. Anytime a ball traveled into her yard, she would spring from her chair and snatch that ball. Into a basket the ball went, no amount of pleases, pretty pleases or general whining convinced her to return the balls. Now, we did not have an unlimited supply of softballs, so our games were severely restricted. A number of parents approached the Shaeffer’s, to be told, the balls had come onto their property, they now owned them. When asked why did they just not allow the kids to retrieve that balls, the answer was, “Our ground is soft, they would damage our yard.” Their actual words, now some of us might be a little “Husky“, an actual boys clothing sizing back then, but we weren’t Goliaths. The oldest of us was probably about 15.
This went on for a few weeks, the Shaeffers amassing a few dozen softballs. Being the Sixties, we decided to mount a protest march. We made signs, “Take me Out to The Ballgame“, “Let Us Play“, “Give Us Our Balls“, were present. My mother had some connections with the Lancaster Newspapers, and they came to do a story. During our marching up and down in front of the Shaeffer’s house, a few of us, I’m not naming names here, started singing the Shaeffer beer jingle. “Shaeffer is the one beer to have, one you’re having more than one.” Evidently not beer drinkers, this was the last straw for the Shaeffers. The police were called. Four sets of parents, including mine, were arrested for Disturbing the Peace and Disorderly Conduct.
A favorable story ran in the Lancaster paper, showing pictures of us and our signs, the beer jingle was mentioned as well. Our parents went to trial, represented pro bono, by Robert Beyers. They were fined one dollar each, payable to the Shaeffers, who were ordered to return the balls.
This series of incidents brought the neighborhood closer together that it had been before, or since. During the summer, our parents pooled resources and purchased a vacant lot that ran behind the homes on my street, including the Shaeffer’s property. The property was uneven with a dip running diagonally through the outfield. We all worked to fill in the ditch, level the infield and layout the diamond. The parents installed an eight foot chicken wire fence around the Shaeffers property, better to protect their soft ground. They also built a backstop behind home plate. My mother contacted Coca Cola and they installed a proper, hand operated scoreboard, for free. It was the original field of dreams. We played there for years and many of the parents participated. Eventually, inevitably, we drifted away to other interests, organized sports, cars, rock and roll, girls, all the usual things. As some of us went off to college or war, the field returned to the weeds, the fence, backstop and scoreboard all rusting and ultimately collapsing. Nothing is left to bear witness to that summer.
Except one thing, surely, hopefully, has survived. Recall the Shaeffer’s having a high school aged girl? With her parents’ attention focused on the gathering of our softballs, arresting our parents, general meanness and I imagine, tending to their fragile ground, little attention must have been given to this young girl. Perhaps, looking for a distraction from this softball business, the daughter is impregnated by an older boy in the neighborhood. She never had the opportunity to attend our high school. In my mind, they had a boy, name of Casey.
Chuck's Stories 