Spring time is baseball time. That’s the way it is now, and that’s the way it was when I was a little girl. As soon as the ground was dry enough, sometimes before, we were all out tossing the ball around, choosing teams, and swinging the bat. We had just our own organization. Parents only got involved if we played at a picnic or a re-union. Then, of course, all the uncles got a chance to play. Dad and his brothers loved to play just about any game a kid liked to play.
My friend Mike and his big brother Bobby and his big sister Diana from down the road, and my sisters Deanna and Bonita and Vickie, and Tom and Cathy from next door and Nancy and Doug from across the road all got together and tramped down the grass and weeds in the pasture to make a ball. Whatever we could find, we used for bases: big sticks, old gunny sacks, or scraps of cardboard worked for us. Sometimes we used ant hills for bases; after a lot of frantic scurrying at the beginning of the game the ants went underground until the game was over. The distance between bases changed a lot, depending on who played, how many played, and where the ant’s tried to make their home. The Queen Anne’s lace looked like sad skeletons sticking every which way, so we stamped it down, otherwise we got poked when we fell down. Falling down and grass stains were part of baseball. Bobby was way better at baseball than anyone else, so he batted left-handed and only got one strike; Vickie was almost a Little Kid, so she had unlimited strikes until she finally hit something. That way everything fair. Continue reading