By Tom Batell

From the time he was fourteen, the year he began pitching for the Springview American Legion baseball team, everyone knew Lefty VanPeltt would turn pro. He was that good.

Now in the final weeks of his senior year at tiny Williamsburg High School, he stood six foot five and weighed two hundred ten. Conditioned by daily farm chores throughout his childhood, he was ready. All that stood between him and the glory of a shot at a professional baseball career was the month of May.

Williamsburg High School, like the town of Williamsburg, was pure rural Midwestern. Adjacent to the campus was a cornfield. In fact, the town itself was a mere oasis in a sea of fields stretching for miles in all directions, a vista broken only by roadways, wood lots, fences, and farmsteads.

Two churches, one white wood frame with a towering pointed spire, the other stone and brick, stood sentry at opposite corners of the village.

A post office, an implement dealer connected to a feed store, a grocery with a general merchandise annex, an electric co-op and a gas station lined what people thought of as Main Street. Out by the main highway, a combination tavern/restaurant beckoned travelers to stop by for a beverage and a sandwich. Several dozen houses (no new ones built within the last three years) sheltered 383 souls according to the 1950 census.

This was the uncomplicated but apparently nurturing environment in which Lefty VanPeltt grew to maturity.

The legend says he discovered his throwing prowess while waiting for the morning school bus. He threw rocks at fence posts, road signs, and perched birds. Soon he noticed that he had a throwing accuracy and power beyond that of other boys his age. He accepted that as normal because he was taller and stronger than most. This contributed to a cool self-confidence when he took the mound in later years against opposing batters. This natural poise also spilled over into all other areas of his life.

What kept him routinely throwing rocks, baseballs, and whatever else lent itself to becoming a projectile was that the act of throwing itself was enjoyable. It was that reflexive enjoyment a carpenter receives when hammering nails. In the heat of a game, it was like the high, the second wind a runner acquires as endorphins in massive quantities are released into the bloodstream of a body under stress.

Just like a kid might shoot baskets for hours on end in response to a feeling of sheer liberation that physical exertion brings, Lefty never tired of aiming and throwing, aiming and throwing.

In the spring of his eighth-grade year, even though this had never been done before, the high school arranged for him to pitch for the varsity baseball team. High school baseball seasons in this part of the country were brief. Games were played in April and May – if it didn’t rain or snow.

Lefty was immediately victorious, pitching shutouts and striking out 15 or more batters in a seven-inning game. And word soon got around.

In June following his ninth-grade year, people from the larger city of Springview recruited him to pitch for their American Legion team. Now American Legion Baseball has always been pretty good baseball. American Legion teams are selective because they usually draw their starting nine from a geographic area that includes several high school districts. Teams often compete statewide and across state lines. The players represent a region’s all stars, and their play shows it.

So for four or five years Lefty VanPeltt became increasingly well-known among sports fans in this part of the state. After he went pro following high school graduation, no one from Williamsburg before or after was more famous.

But this is not a story about Lefty VanPeltt’s success or failure as a professional baseball player. Rather it is a story about a single play in a long forgotten high school baseball game decades ago.

It is the smallest grain in the sands of time.

It was a cold Tuesday afternoon that May. Crunching the gravel beneath it, a yellow school bus bearing 13 ball players from District 212 slowly rolled to a stop. The players and the coach disembarked, and the bus searched for a place to park from which the driver could remain aboard sheltered from the stinging wind and watch the game, or maybe doze, far more comfortably than those few braving the bleachers.

The Williamsburg players were taking some quick batting practice, about five swings each. Their coach trotted off the field to shake hands with the Oakdale coach and exchange pleasantries and sports gossip.

And there he was, Lefty VanPeltt, standing tall and shagging flies out in left field, yelling and joking with teammates. He was relaxed and among friends he had known all of his 18 years.

He would pitch this game. His team was 17 wins and 1 loss; but his pitching record in this his senior year was a perfect 15 and 0.

The Oakdale record wasn’t bad either: 11 and 3.

So there you have it. Two small high schools playing baseball on a diamond adjacent to a newly-plowed cornfield on a chilly windy day in May.

It would be a seven-inning game, weather and light permitting. Both pitchers were in top form – or so it seemed. The difference was that while Lefty VanPeltt struck out most of his opposition batters with barely visible fastballs and absolutely unswattable knuckleballs, the Oakdale pitcher relied more on luck. That is, he was able to get batters out because on this day the Williamsburg players simply hit the ball directly at someone, three bounces to the second baseman, or a lazy fly ball to the center fielder.

Neither team threatened to score until the bottom of the sixth, when with one out, Lefty VanPeltt himself doubled to right field and then went to third when the second baseman fumbled and then kicked the cutoff throw from the outfielder.

The Oakdale coach was agitated. The unnecessary error made him angry, but he also had something else in mind. He walked back and forth in front of his dugout which was only a bench. He yelled and clapped loudly.

“Heads up. OK, this is it. Let’s go. You know what you’re supposed to do.”

The Oakdale pitcher did know because they had practiced it the afternoon before.

In order to get VanPeltt to go as far down the third base line as possible, the Oakdale pitcher threw from a windup rather than a stretch.

VanPeltt did indeed break for home. And, yes, the squeeze play was on. The right-handed Williamsburg batter turned to bunt. He faced the pitcher, both hands gripping his bat out in front, making it part of his body. His clenched teeth demonstrated determination to get a piece of the ball, to tap it perfectly so that it would roll slowly down the third base line thereby allowing VanPeltt to score easily.

The Oakdale third baseman broke for his bag. The pitch was wild, shoulder high and three feet behind the batter, impossible to bunt. The batter had no choice but to hit the deck and roll out of the way as VanPeltt would surely score on a wild pitch.

But the Oakdale catcher knew the play. He sprang up, stretched far to his left, and caught the ball.

“Gotcha!” said the Oakdale pitcher under his breath.

Indeed, VanPeltt was caught halfway between home and third.

After the third baseman tagged him out, VanPeltt exhibited a painful look of disbelief and frustration.

He groaned “Awww shi….”

He whined and pleaded with the umpire, “That’s not fair.”

But the umpire ignored him and bent over to dust off home plate.

The squeeze play had been foiled. The Williamsburg batter who fell down to get out of the way struck out. The game went into the top of the seventh inning with the score 0 to 0.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Tom Waltz

The other day, my ten-year-old daughter Jessica approached me with a large box of baseball cards she had been given by her aunt. Apparently one of her aunt’s co-workers was doing a bit of house cleaning and found the box amongst items that were stored away in a corner of the basement — leftover belongings, I suppose, of a son or daughter who had taken residence there at one time or another. Instead of throwing them away, this co-worker decided to bring the cards into work and find out if anyone was interested in taking them off her hands. Jessica’s aunt, knowing of Jessy’s recent interest in athletics, grabbed them up and brought them home as a gift for my daughter.

Well, truth be told, the cards could have just as easily been a gift for me. When Jessica showed them to me, I instantly felt a strong burst of nostalgic excitement — an irresistible tug in the direction of my youth, back to a time when my life revolved around the magical world of baseball cards and, more importantly, baseball heroes.

I remember spending day upon day sorting my huge card collection, changing the routine and order to satisfy whatever whim possessed me at the moment. Some days it was alphabetically by team or by player’s name. Other days it was by whomever happened to be my favorite and least favorite players just then. The next day might find me filing them by something as trivial as team uniform color — coolest to goofiest or vice versa (I wonder, now, at my style sense back then. Somehow I always found the Houston Astros uniforms to be the best. Yes, those bizarre rainbow-striped atrocities of the seventies and eighties. What was I thinking?!). But no matter what sorting method I chose to use, one constant remained true: I loved those cards and I loved those players.

In my little hands I held everything I dreamed of being. Pete Rose, sliding headfirst into home, the card dog-eared and worn, as rough and scrappy as I imagined Pete himself to be. Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, holding a strange one-on-one conversation with the baseball he was about to launch across the plate for a strike. Willie Stargell, stocky and powerful. Johnny Bench, ready to spring up from his catcher’s position and fire a shot down to second — another would-be base stealer stopped cold. And, of course, Reggie Jackson. I remember “Mr. October’s” three shots against the Dodgers in the 1977 World Series like it was yesterday. The awesome swings. The mighty drives. Boom! Boom! Boom! And, always, the knowing smile as he watched each ball sail over the fence. I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

Man, I’ll tell you, those cards put me on the ball field, in the middle of the action, and side by side with my heroes.

As with most people, however, my priorities changed as I grew older. Eventually, baseball cards were replaced by girls and jobs and family and so on. But the special moments in time captured by those mysterious pieces of cardboard have always stayed with me — long after I lost my own collection to some forgotten corner of a basement or attic somewhere in the past.

The cards may be gone, but the memories remain.

And now my daughter has begun her own collection. As she sorts through the piles of cards she has placed on the floor in front of us, I can’t help but notice the same gleam in her eyes that I know I must have had at her age as I rummaged through those colorful snapshots of my heroes. Or, perhaps the gleam I see now in her eyes is really a reflection of my own — never lost and never dimmed.

I don’t know.

All I know is that the excitement we both share at this moment is undeniable. Special.

Ours.

Sure, the names have changed — Griffey instead of Jackson, Rodriguez instead of Bench, and so on — but the feelings of wonder and awe are no different…for her or for me. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Now, if she and I could only agree on which team has the coolest uniform….

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Bruce Marshall

I don’t have to tell you Milwaukee County Stadium has been torn down to make way for a new baseball field. If you’re a fan, you’ve already gone through the mourning and the gut-wrenching realization that nothing lasts forever.

The demolition of stadiums is happening more and more around the United States every year, but this particular one affects me because Milwaukee County Stadium was not just the park of my youth but the epicenter of my fondest memories. And while the team that has played at MCS for the last 30 years is not the team I grew up with, the field is where I first learned to like and respect my father and the game of baseball.

In the 1950′s we followed the Milwaukee Braves daily. My father would rush home from downtown Milwaukee where he worked, gather me up, and we would board a bus to County Stadium so we could arrive in time for batting practice. We never failed to watch the warm-ups of both teams, then get a hot dog and a Coke for dinner. By then, we were more than ready for the game. This happened 40 or 50 times a summer during the nine years we lived in Milwaukee. My dad and I must have set some sort of record for our loyalty.

It was an exciting time to be a Braves fan. Team greats like Frank Torre, Red Schoendienst, Joe Adcock, Warren Spahn, Eddie Mathews and, of course, Hank Aaron dazzled us with their mastery of the game. I knew their names and batting averages by the time I was seven years old, but I didn’t know that the last line of the National Anthem was “the home of the brave.”

I was convinced it was “the home of the Braves,” and even argued this with friends and family with certainty.

The memorable games and performances my dad and I witnessed were awe inspiring and defined a part of my life forever: Harvey Haddix pitching 12 perfect innings against the Braves only to lose, or Willie Mays hitting four home runs in a single game. We were witness to such history-making plays, the like of which have yet to be repeated.

But the best memory of all was witnessing the Braves winning the World Series in 1957 against the hated Yankees. Victory sent Milwaukee into a frenzy I’ll not soon forget. It was a wonderful time to be a kid, and I reveled in the magic.

But these men and events were not only memories that defined me as a young man. They framed the relationship I had with my father. The shared experiences gave us a bond that would not be broken until he died in 1983. Even after his death, I was able to go back occasionally to Milwaukee County Stadium to remember many of our happiest days.

Now that is being taken away, too.

I know life moves on, I just don’t like where it takes me sometimes. Today’s game of baseball is very different, as are the players. In many ways they seem more talented. They are — without a doubt — bigger, stronger and faster than the players I watched as a youngster. However, there is an air of detachment in today’s hitters, pitchers and fielders that men of my age resent. The players seem to be running a business — a big business at that. They want many guarantees.

Given such a mindset, they frequently take no risks on the field, making the game too predictable for my taste. The beauty of the game has been diminished, because beauty, in my mind, cannot be created without risk.

I know I am not alone when I write that the experiences I shared with my father at Milwaukee County Stadium won’t ever be diminished. Men of my age all over the United States shared similar experiences with their dads, the only differences being the baseball parks, the players and the performances they witnessed.

We are, in ever-increasing numbers, lamenting the passing of our childhoods, the changes in the game of baseball and the new, sterile parks being built to replace the splendid monuments that housed our glorious experiences on so many hot summer evenings.

It is unfortunate that the old ballparks are going by the wayside, but it is also inevitable. Touch my deepest feelings, and you will discover dismay as I witness the disappearance of our old stadiums. But, understand this, too: These structures may be physically removed, brick by brick, but they can never be erased from our hearts.

Given that certainty, I will mourn Milwaukee County Stadium’s demise as I honor the memory of summers with my father. Gone. But never forgotten.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Jane Richard

It was “Score Night” in Rohnert Park on Tuesday, July 17th, as the Sonoma County Crushers trounced the St George Pioneerzz, 13-2, to extend their winning streak to a season-high six games.

The team had just returned home after a three-game sweep of the Long Beach Breakers down south, and 906 of the Crusher faithful turned out on a chilly July night to cheer their heroes on the local independent minor league team.

After a quiet first two innings, with Crusher pitcher Gabe Neboyia and his counterpart Ryan Lubner matching zeroes in the run column, Sonoma County erupted and the crowd grew in danger of becoming hoarse. Eleven Crushers came to the plate in the third inning, seven of whom ran, trotted or slid home.

The half-inning took so long, that Neboyia ambled down to the bullpen to play catch with a ‘pen-mate to stay warm and loose. The strategy must have worked, because, apart from a single run in the fourth, and a solo home run to St George DH Anthony Lewis in the sixth, the line of zeroes across the Pioneerzz part of the scoreboard strode on with barely a hiccup.

The same could not be said of the Crushers. The fourth inning saw two more runs for the team in purple pinstripes, and in the seventh, by which time the hapless visitors were bringing in their fourth pitcher, another four runs capped off the evening nicely.

Despite the cold and all the scoring (or maybe because of the scoring – one-sided in the “right” direction), the game was moving quickly and the patrons were feeling festive. Between-inning diversions like “tot racing” and “sumo football” kept the mood alive.

This latter could only be found in the lower levels of professional baseball, where entertainment is the key to revenue and thus survival. Two apparently willing volunteers clad in giant Pillsbury-doughboy-like brown suits to the point of near immobility, play “football” in the foul territory down the third-base line until one falls over. At this point the game disintegrates since that player is now incapacitated like an upside-down dung beetle and the other usually dives on top. To the loud exhortations of the crowd and adding to the general madness, the mascot, “Crusher the Abominable Sonoman”, flings his bulk onto the pile and the stadium staff are left hauling the prostrate gargantua onto their feet and off the field so the “real” game can resume.

Back on the diamond, every Sonoma County player, it seemed, was either driving in or scoring runs. Designated hitter, former Japan League star Makoto Sasaki – nicknamed “Sasa” by teammates and fans – did both of the above once each, as he lashed singles (3) about the outfield.

Nine-year professional, fiery center fielder Chris Powell, had the best in a night of great box scores, with a triple and two singles, four RBI and three trips home. Recently acquired right fielder Diego Rico and popular third baseman Bo Durkac had the other multiple RBI nights while scoring once each, Durkac sending three teammates home, and Rico a pair.

The story of the game, though, was sophomore Crusher Neboyia. On a night designed more for ice skating than baseball, he hurled 116 pitches, facing only eight more Pioneerzz than he needed to. Nine batters either flailed or looked at strike three, and only one saw ball four. After eight innings of stellar pitching, with a lop-sided lead of eleven runs, Sonoma County manager Tim Ireland decided that was a job well done, and told his thrower to take a seat for the finale.

End of the eighth, and down in the bullpen Brian Rose had finished his warm-up tosses. Bare arms showing below shirtsleeves the poker-faced reliever grabbed his jacket and strode to the dugout. Fellow pitcher Tim Davidson yelled out encouragement. “Go get ‘em Rosie! Sleeveless and all. Sleeveless in Santa Rosa!”.

Three batters later the iron-blooded “Rosie” had dealt with the opposition and the game was over. As teammates gathered on the field to congratulate one another, the well-satisfied fans murmured happily, lingering before leaving. Impervious to the cold, kids ran about the stands with balls and gloves, or pressed at the low fences, clamoring for autographs. The players were only too happy to comply, and for a while the line between uniforms and sweaters blurred.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)