At Weeks End
I was smitten by baseball at a young age.
In the early 1950s granddad and I listened to reports of happenings in the Korean conflict each morning. In the afternoon hed tune into the Mutual Broadcasting Networks baseball game of the day, when many were played under the sun.
Even before the Athletics moved from Philadelphia to Kansas City in 1955, I was hooked. I found a magazine that had rosters for all major league teams, most of which I memorized, along with diagrams of stadiums.
When the Cardinals, the team I followed before the As came to K.C., were playing the Dodgers at Ebberts Field Id have the magazine opened to that field. Consequently, I was able to pinpoint the whereabouts of the Cards Enos Slaughter as he raced back to snag a fly ball near the wall. Slaughter became a favorite, partly because of his daring on the base paths that gave announcers a chance to rave with all the superlatives at their disposal. When he joined the As in 1955, at age 39, I was thrilled. Remarkably, he hit .322 that year.
After Slaughter left I hopped on Harry Suitcase Simpsons bandwagon. Who couldnt like a guy called Suitcase because he played for 17 Negro, major and minor leagues teams.
Meanwhile, I wasnt much of a player.
When my little gang would traipse to a ball yard on summer days, inevitably I would be last chosen. I knew my limitations, but there were a few times it hurt a bit.
My only experience playing organized baseball came in my early teens, the single opportunity then in Humboldt.
I tried out for second base. The coach, seeing my talent level, immediately dispatched me to right field, where he figured I wouldnt have many fly balls to drop or grounders to have squirt between my legs.
I could hit the ball a little, and had a few doubles when I smacked the pill far enough to struggle, breathlessly, into second base.
My only chance to be a hero, such as it was, came one night in Iola. We were ahead by a single run. In the bottom of the final inning the Iola team put a couple of runners on base. The next batter slugged a high fly to right. I drifted back and squeezed the ball as it descended, then ran off the field as though the catch were routine, which it would have been for most anyone else.
Later on, after joining the Register in 1964, I was asked to coach its PeeWee team. That turned into 18 years in the third-base coaching box. In the middle year of my five of coaching the Iola Legion, we won a state championship, the first of now several for Iola. That occurred, by the way, 30 years ago this summer.
If you like baseball to any degree or want to see the game played in an unusual way, drop by Walter Johnson Field in Humboldt early this afternoon. Teams from Topeka and Branson, Mo., will square off in a game played the way it was in the 1880s, with a number of confounding rules.
