Friendship when you’re a kid is more about availability and convenience. You play with those who are nearby and who share common interests. Fortunately, Julie liked doing the things I liked, and visa-versa. We played in the tree house, made forts, rode bikes, and played games–mostly Monopoly. She didn't mind when I (the banker) handed out free loans for hotels and motels when there was no personal wealth left. Actually we were just following the basic tenets of some of the political parties of the day!
The family had an old blue bike. I am not sure what family member owned it. We rode that thing everywhere because it had a wide granny seat and a cargo rack on the back. The wheels were huge and the handle bars were positioned so that it was easy for a kid to ride and steer without having to lean over like on a 10-speed. Some days, Julie was brave enough to sit on my shoulders as we rode down the dirt road in front of our house. We wore no helmets, pads, gloves or any other safety equipment of any kind. Bikers in those days did not consider riding to be particularly dangerous, even with a younger sister sitting on your shoulders.
Life in those days was marked by summer free-time and school prison. The start of school always meant that winter and cold weather were just around the corner. It was like the seasons knew exactly when to make the big change–just a few weeks after school started. As a general reprieve, the seasons were also marked by sports.
One summer day, dad came home and informed Mike and me that we were signed up to play baseball. Pee Wee league was going strong and apparently, they needed players. The idea of sports and competition was lost on me, but it didn't seem like I had a choice–I was signed up! It wasn't so bad; I got a cool uniform and a mitt. My team was the Honda Boys.
I soon learned that I just didn't have any savvy for baseball. It seemed pointless to whack a ball with a bat and then run really fast from one base to another all while the other team tried to "get you out." It seemed the most important aspect of this game was to avoid being whacked with that rock-hard baseball being thrown all around. When it wasn't our team’s turn to bat, I found that playing defense was equally pointless. Also, in the back of my mind, I hated to think of ever being hit by the ball.
That thought dictated and controlled every dimension of my game. Plus, I couldn't find any merit in the coach wanting me to say “hey batter, batter, hey batter, batter–swing!” when I was out in my position in right field. That “chatter” as he called it was the fruitiest part of the game and I didn't like it.
Hard as I tried, I couldn't hit the ball when it was my turn to bat. There just didn't seem to be any hand-eye coordination when it came to that. Plus, that ball was coming fast and I knew if it hit any part of me, I would feel a lot of pain.
“Why was I doing this?” was a question that floated through my young mind every time I suited up for practice or for games.
“Because dad said so, was always the answer…” As he exclaimed numerous times, he wanted his boys to have more "opportunities" than he had as a small boy. Well, his second son didn't like baseball.
One day as I occupied my spot in right field, I was enthralled and intrigued with the grasshoppers and ants nearby. Large locusts were flying all around and I ran in circles trying to catch one in my huge mitt. Suddenly, I heard my name being screamed from the dugout. It was coach and he was yelling for me to “look-up! in addition to screaming a few descriptive curse words. I obeyed and looked up. A ball was flying right towards me. My first instinct was to try to catch it, but I knew how difficult that would be and how much it would hurt if it hit me.
As I stepped back to adjust for the glaring sunlight, I saw the ball hit the ground then bounce up. One never knows for sure how hard, flying objects seem to find their mark, but that bouncing baseball flew up and whacked me right on the bridge of my nose. The lights went out for a second and tears flooded into my eyes.
When the fog cleared, I looked around for the ball and saw it lying on the ground nearby. Fortunately, my face stopped its forward progress. I picked it up and blindly heaved it toward home plate. It was at that moment that I was convinced that baseball just wasn't my thing. That thought was reinforced by my glaring team mates and my cursing, swearing coach.
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