Lessons from Baseball
The Game I Love
by
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IINTRODUCTION In the 1950s and 1960s, baseball was the king of kids’ sports. There was no organized football. There were just a few options for basketball. But whether it was a vacant lot, of which there were many, or an actual baseball field, kids grabbed their bat and what balls they had and often their lunch, for what would be a full day of baseball. We had Little League (age 9-12) and Babe Ruth Leagues (age 13-15) to test our skills and our wills against the other kids our age, who felt nothing was more important than putting bat to ball or ball to leather. High School baseball was everywhere, and for some of us lucky ones, college baseball was one path to signing professionally or to ending organized baseball well. Millions of kids dreamed of playing in the Major Leagues. But for all the superstars who achieved greatness, there were a million other kids who experienced the game as a rite of passage into life. This is a story of how the game was learned, taught, and the feelings that cannot be imitated like running down a fly ball or throwing strike three past the biggest, baddest kid in the neighborhood. It’s not my intention to share where I ranked among the millions. I played, and I had moments. These special moments in time happen occasionally in baseball. My story is simply about the love of the game. It’s about what it’s like to make that diving or over the shoulder catch, to steal a base when everyone expects it, or to pitch a ball for the first time that loops, darts, dives or drops off a table. It’s knowing the joy of that whiff of a batter’s bat missing it entirely. I didn’t make it all the way to the baseball Major League dream but, as “Pastor Bill,” I did get to pitch in the Majors, every Sunday morning. Just in a different field. My story is about guys named Magic, Lefty, Red, Junior, Buster, Worm, D.J, and how I got to earn the name Spider/Spidey and even see it a couple times in the newspaper when our teams got coverage. It's not so much about the ’57 Braves or Casey’s Yankees. It’s about the millions of kids, the rest of us, who still play on Fields of Dreams in our sleep, and who remember the feeling when even the guys on the other team applauded your one shining moment played in front of 15-50 fans. With luck, maybe once a year or two even a sportswriter took notice.. Put me in Coach, I’m ready to play…today.
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About the Book
In the 1960s, baseball was king among kids sports. Little League, Babe Ruth League, all the way through college, it was still the #1 game that kids played and grew up with. This is a story from just one of those millions of kids, now a retired US Navy Chaplain and Pastor whose love for the game is lifelong. How do you learn to play this game? Who are the mentors along the way? Are they all from the baseball world? What happens when a lesson clicks? What girl that won all the footraces in elementary school in Rockford, Illinois was an inspiration? What do you learn playing 2-man baseball with the best line drive hitter in Florida? What are the times that necessity was the mother of invention? All of these things are part of my life. I was not the best among my peers. I was fortunate to have some tools. Pitching, running down fly balls, bunting, stealing bases, learning to slide without raspberries…every part of the game requires inspiration. Even a possible visit from Hayley Mills to your middle school can become a surprising part of growing out of insecurities into a man playing a kids game. You learn most about the game from the kids who do it a little better than you do. They are part and parcel of why this is a lifelong devotion. For whatever number of innings each day that you are on that field, from vacant lots to major league fields, there is no drama from your everyday life that can intrude and steal your joy. Your team, the other team, coaches, even how an umpire will see the slide when stealing home, it’s all part of why this was the best part of being alive for a number of years. You played ‘til the sun set or you got called home to dinner. Maybe a few times you even played under the lights. A Grim Reaper comes along in baseball. The last guy to take your returned uniform is always lurking. You just have to keep him at bay long enough to have a lifetime of memories.
About the Author
Bill Evans grew up in Sarasota, FL, where professionally designed baseball fields abound. He is a retired U.S. Navy Chaplain, and a retired Presbyterian Pastor. Writing has gone with the territory, but it’s time to write for fun. He is married to Gwen with 5 adult children and 12 grandchildren. Write what you know. A baseball book is long overdue.