Every year around World Series time baseball is on my mind. But not the kind played today by multi-millionaires. Rather it drifts back to Lawler in the 1950s. This little piece from ‘Depot Street Memories–The Lawler Stories’ was fun to write. I hope you enjoy it.
Sunday Afternoon Field of Dreams
The late broadcaster, Paul Harvey, frequently stated in his fifteen-minute nationally syndicated radio news program, “Not all that we call progress is progress.”
I believe that to be the case sometimes even when I tune into my DirecTV on a Sunday afternoon and choose from virtually every sport or entertainment option throughout the world on one of the 150 available channels. If we are willing to pay the extra premium it is possible to get any NFL game MLB game that we want to watch. And that does not include PGA tournaments, track meets, volley ball, bowling, motor cycle racing, NASCAR, boxing, wrestling, basketball, or mixed martial arts battles—just to name a few!
We now take it for granted that we that we can sit in the comfort of our living room and watch highly paid professional athletes perform at the highest level in living color on our high definition televisions.
To be perfectly honest, however, I got much more enjoyment going down to Junko Park on the east end of Lawler to watch an amateur town-team baseball game on a sunny Sunday against Fort Atkinson or New Hampton or Fredericksburg or Sumner or Spillville.
The players ranged in age from 18-50 and performance enhancing drugs included a Marlboro between innings for some and a cooler of iced down Schlitz at the end of the bench for almost all.
Connie Kuennen was the paid umpire of choice for home games behind the plate. To save money, however, they often drafted some poor innocent soul out of the stands to ump at second base for no remuneration and enough grief to last a lifetime. The common lie went something like this, “Come on, Fred. Just come out and do the best you can. No one is going to care if you miss a call or two. It will be fun and we need your help.”
Some poor sucker always relented and ended up with a boatload of abuse before the 9th inning mercifully came to an end. I noticed through the years that those ‘volunteer’ unpaid umps seldom came back a second time. Put me in that category.
“Come on, Sheridan. There’s nothing to it. Stand out there and call safe or out. It’s not rocket science and you’re among friends. What could go wrong?”
I’ll tell you what could go wrong. I was one lousy ump and my baseball friends could not seem to take a joke about my ineptness! And the guys from the visiting team got downright hostile when a close call didn’t go their way.
A classic example came when our guys (first mistake…I was supposed to be neutral and instead still thought as a fan: our good guys vs. their bad guys) got an opposing player in a run-down (we used to call it a ‘pickle’) between first and second.
I don’t remember the players for sure after all these years, but it could well have been Mark Timlin and Johnny Ed Scally who were chasing the miscreant from Charles City between bases. They were both pretty good players and undoubtedly it would be a matter of seconds before one of the two tagged him for the final out of the inning (mistake two…never anticipate what MIGHT happen). So when the runner took a desperate head-first dive into 2nd base hoping against hope that the defenders would not be able to touch him with the ball—volunteer umpire Willy (that would be me) raised his right hand in the air and confidently yelled, “Yer’ OUTTA here!”
The Lawler guys hurriedly headed for the bench for another cigarette and cool brew while the diving Charles City guy jumped up screaming at me, “Are you nuts man? He missed me by a mile!”
Now I was in a bit of a quandary. The Lawler guys had already popped a top and the guy who had just been called out was joined by 8 of his buddies who were forced to put down their own beers and get back on the field because of my call.
So, was he right? Was he safe by a mile? Well, he was only half right. He was safe by at least two miles. All I could do is stand there with a stupid look on my face wondering how my right hand went up and I yelled safe when it wasn’t even close.
Back then it was not the cliché that it is today—but somehow I understood immediately that I’d better keep my day job because professional umpiring was not part of my future. Connie Kuennen’s position was safe.
The uniforms—sponsored by local businesses with company names on the back—never quite matched because the younger guys got new ones that had a slightly different color. There were rather vague ground rules about whether a ball hit on or over the road in left field was an automatic homerun or not. The highest honor one could receive would be hitting one onto John Junko’s yard in deep center or into his business in right field with huge storage tanks for fuel oil and gasoline.
Some of my peers (Tom and Eddie McGreevey; Tom and Mike Leonard; Greg, Mark and George Timlin; Joe and John Scally; Ray Kuennen and others) played along with a cast of characters a little bit older (Roger Croell; Tom Grace; Lefty Murray) to make for a fun bunch of guys to watch. All had a bit of a competitive spirit but no one took it so seriously that they were going to lose a night’s sleep by being on the short end of a 15-2 thumping.
One Sunday they were short of players and recruited me to play right field. It turned out to be an experience that made umpiring seem like a Sunday school picnic. My throwing arm was abysmal and I couldn’t hit because of my back problem—a yellow streak from the bottom of my neck to the top of my butt. I couldn’t hit sand if I fell off a camel’s hump—so had no business in the batting box. On that particular afternoon I struck out four times after a total of twelve pitches. My spiritual life improved, however, as I spent the entire game our in right field praying that no one would hit a ball to me.
By this time in their lives most of the guys had families and full-time jobs so they approached the game the way it was meant to be played with the joy and gusto. It gave them a chance to relive some of their glory days in high school while entertaining 50-100 people in those pre-television days. We happily cheered for the home team and good naturedly booed the visitors. Often the opposing players were good friends with the Lawler guys and coolers were shared after the game was over.
They played it the way we did years earlier as little boys—at The Park. Lawler town team baseball games were a sight to behold.
To steal a phrase for Field of Dreams: “Is this Lawler?”
“No. It’s Heaven!”
Bill Sheridan www.sheridanwrites.com william_sheridan1@msn.com