Whatever? — It (life) goes on

When the men came back from World War II, what was a saying you often heard on certain afternoons when a bunch of them got together? Okay, I know, I left out mention of women who did a good part in bringing that worldwide crisis to its end. But this ‘cuff is mostly about the men. Of course, the gals were watching from the bleachers, yelling the guys on … on what? … On a big win in a baseball game that pitted the local GIs against similar GIs who were the team for their community.

For a boy 10 or 11 watching those guys swing those bats was a great way to spend an afternoon. Looking back, there was a lot of fun and joy and cheering and hollering and … you know … well, maybe you don’t … but it was great just to see everybody happy and glad to be home, even if the game wasn’t going the way the hometown crowd wanted. Trailing three to five was not a good position to be in when the home team went to the field in the top of the ninth.

It we can just hold ’ em … maybe there’ll be a miracle. A tenseness seemed to fall over the crowd in the bleachers, a tenseness that hadn’t shown its face until now. The visitors added another run. Now it was three to six. If we could just hold on for a tie and send it to extra innings … But a basesloaded homer would be even better. And then it happened. Our first batter up lined a single past the shortstop. And the next batter pushed him on to third with another single. Their pitcher must be getting tired. Their coach marched out to the mound.

After a few swings of the arms, a couple of kicks of dirt and nodding and yelling, the pitcher stayed on the mound. But …

The talk must have done its job; our next two batters struck out. Notice how the 10-year-old (oh, yes, he was 11; it was in the spring of ‘46) … how he got deeply involved in the action. It was then our best player picked up the bat. He had had a couple of hits earlier in the game, including a home run. Believe it or not, he was walked. The bases were loaded. Guess who was up; it was a high school boy, a senior who had just graduated a few weeks earlier. He wasn’t a veteran. He and another grad had joined the vets, who some weeks were a little shorthanded. He picked up his bat, tapped it on the ground, swung it a couple of times and settled in for the first pitch.

Do you want to finish the rest of the story? If he strikes out or pops up — he hadn’t had a hit during the game — what’ll it be? We’ll see. He must have studied the pitcher a little bit because there were two ball calls. On the third pitch, he swung and sent the ball into the stands. Then a strike was called. From a vantage point where what looked like a strike was … you could hear the call, “ball.” Now the game was not only three and six, it was three and two. The bleachers went silent … and then exploded with every type of noise the lungs could produce. And, just as quickly, the silence returned.

The pitcher wound up. The ball was on its way. There was the swing. Oh! He nicked the ball and sent it rolling off the field just past the first baseline. The fence in front of the crowd shook and swayed from the crowd wanting to get out on the field and help … whatever. It was then the miracle happened. No, he didn’t walk. He wasn’t hit by a pitch. The silence was filled with a sharp sound as the bat met the ball. Surely it was a fastball, right down the middle or … who knows what.

There was no outfielders’ fence for a ball to go over but, if there had been, it might have been close. The right fielder backed up the center fielder in chasing that small white sphere which rolled toward the springs. ( This is a Sulphur Springs story, if you haven’t guessed. It could have happened anywhere.) The crowd was going wild as one, two, three runners crossed home plate. And mixed in with the cheers were the words, “There goes the old ball game … ” Have you ever heard those words? Do home folks or visitors still shout those six words today? But it wasn’t to be that afternoon. The score was six and six.

But that’s not the end of the story. After a couple more innings, the home team crowd quietly left the stands; the visitors honked their horns as they headed back to … it doesn’t matter. There will be more afternoons to celebrate. It was a good game. The guys will meet ’ em again on their home turf. “We’ll show ’em.”

Those were the old days when sports were sports, at least locally. Of course. there were national teams. The 11-year-old, a Cards fan, knew all their players and most, or many, in the two divisions. Those games you heard over the radio. Can’t you still hear Harry (how did he spell Cary, his last name?) You got to use your imagination. Today, what do you use? You see some guy sitting in a booth (I guess that’s so, I don’t watch ’em) … It just ain’t the same. It’s called evolution.

But back to the ’46 play for real enjoyment, not for how many millions are made. There are adult teams and ones for every age, for every kid who wants to be a ball star — from pee wee on up. But back to that ‘46 game. What happened to that home run hitter, that senior? It just wasn’t to be. He tripped as he rounded third and was tagged out as he limped home. I’ll bet that senior, every once in awhile, relives that moment with, “If only I could have made it home!”

But I also remember the crowd of vets who crowded around him, pounding him on the back and … and … the crowd noise. The 11-year-old can still hear that sound. He went on to lead a full and successful life and I’ll bet he, like every grandpa, has stories he tells the grands. How all that day learned that “There goes the old ball game” often doesn’t happen; but he learned there is still a life out there to fill with joy and thankfulness. That every baseball game today can teach a lesson … as can every event in life. But, sadly, what imaginations are filling lives today?

Next ‘cuff: How about asphalt on old ‘59?