The summer of Sixty Eight
There are only three occasions to wear a little league uniform: Parade Day, playing ball or sitting in the bleachers at Tiger stadium. Every year they had a little league team day. This day included kids from Canada too. My hometown was just across the border. Windsor Ontario. Windsor Ontario was once called Sandwich. Now Sandwich is a road running east and west along the river. Back in the day our city was divided by a few of these sandwiches. They were three sandwiches and no, hero was not one of them: East, west and south. We represented Sandwich East. I don't remember the bus ride over, but I do remember our seats.
Our seats were in the nosebleed section of right field. My father and his brother were our chaperones watching over my brother and I. Looking around the place was enormous. It was sunny day. The sounds of the vendors filled the air. "Get your red hots here" and "peanuts roasted peanuts" I remember peanuts flying in the air and money changing hands like a dollar bill conga line. It was a time when people helped people out. That's just what fans did. I never seen hot dogs being thrown, that could have been messy. But the hot dog hand off and money exchange probably happened.
There are two lines a kids never want to be part of: the concession line and the line to the washroom. But ever kid for some reason had to see the difference between the home and away can. They called them washrooms, but this washroom didn't have urinals, just a long sink with a bunch of guys peeing in it. Nobody wants to see that. I didn't and I'm still recovering. Back to the seat.
My brother had new blue glove, a gift from his Godparents. I had an over sized old glove or maybe it felt over sized wearing it on my undersized little kid hand. Catching a game ball would have been awesome. Speaking of over sized. I think the pitcher that day way Mickey Lolich. Mickey had a big gut, and I could clearly see his big gut from my vantage point. I think red hots and beer were to blame. Just below in right field stood Al Kaline, another great. I don't remember much more.
Radio
I was nine years old and glued to the radio. Ernie Harwell's voice echoed off the paneled walls of my youth and our den. I was a nervous wreck. It was the world series and like the tigers our backs were against the wall. The only way to soothe myself was standing on the couch bouncing nervously. My dad raced home after work to hear the play by play. When he entered the house he'd say, referring to Willie Horton "My name is Willie not Billy" This occurred every time he saw me in my perplexed state. Willie was one of my heroes. There is nothing like sound of the crack of the bat, the crowd cheering and Ernie announcing another home run. "That one is long gone"
Television
My friend lived across the street. He had a colored TV. But that wasn't the reason why I stood on the front porch with my nose pushed against the screen door. His mom was like a second mother to me, and she was the best cookie baker in the neighborhood. I would often go over knowing well that my friends were out, just to get cookies and milk. Watching the tigers in living color was just a bonus.
The man of the house had one rule. Kids should be seen and not heard. I followed that rule to the letter. I wished no pipe smoking was a rule too. He smoked players and or export tobacco. A Stuffed pipe meant it was time to shut my mouth and or stuff my mouth. I am amazed I could see the screen through the fog of smoke. The seen and not heard rule was easy to follow. Especially, when I was stuffing my face with milk and cookies.
There I was watching my hero on the mound. He was the reason why I was a little league pitcher. His name was Denny McLain. He kicked as high as a New York chorus line girl but he somehow he always found the mark. The phrase " kicks and deals" a Harwell classic was etched in my mind. Now seeing in living color, vivid proof. That summer my name changed from Dennis to Denny. I'd be in the backyard dressed up in my baggy little league uniform imitating his pitching style. I would kick and deal and find the mark but unfortunately that mark often was the etched Louisville Slugger logo on my brother’s bat.
The day they won the nineteen sixty-eight world series; I was standing on the couch again listening to the game. I remember jumping off and running out the door to share in the celebration. This day was the exception to the rule because this kid could be seen, and I could be heard yelling and running across the street. That pipe smoking guy was excited too. What a great day. When dad got home, I couldn't contain myself. Hi fives, handshakes and hugs everywhere. There's nothing like the feeling you get when your team wins.
There are more baseball stories to tell you but that would have to wait for another time, another team and the invention of the remote control.
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