The 1961 New York Yankees, and especially the pursuit of Babe Ruth's home run record by that team's Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris, kicked it up a notch for all of us.
By the summer of '62, we'd built our own ball field (quite a story in itself that I will explore at another time) about a half mile run from the Pond. We breathed baseball that summer. Any day that wasn't a rain out meant a game before lunch, and several games after. Naturally, we had our own home run race that year, which I won (again, a story for another time). But what I most carry with me about that time was how much we all loved the game and each others' company.
I wish I had photographs of that summer, but I didn't get my first camera until 1965. So what I offer you here is actually a reunion shot of part of that '62 team of mine. I don't recall that we ever had more than eight players on the field at one time (two teams of four), and that was on a good day. If we had less than four show up, we played "hit 'em where they ain't," a great game known by as many different names as there were kids that played it (and still do, I hope). The roster changed as families entered and exited the Pond community during the course of the summer. The main teammates I recall are Jim Harvey, Bob McLellan, Stuart Perkins, Alan Perkins, Clive West, our great cheerleader and occasional player Susan West, and our unofficial mentor and grand poobah Paul Just. (I apologize to anyone I left out due to foggy memory.)
The photo is a very obviously posed shot taken in Guilford, Maine, many miles away from the original Sluggers Field. Left-to-right: Stuart Perkins, James Harvey, Robert McLellan. Jim had obviously outgrown the rest of us by then (he was always the oldest player on the team), as his expression discloses. He is my oldest friend, and he recently retired to the good life in Maine. Bob is my cousin and friend, who relocated to Florida many years ago, and who still follows the New York Yankees with a passion (I graduated to the Boston Red Sox when Carl Yastrzemski arrived). Stuart I lost track of until Jim found him for me in the mid-'80s, during one of my visits to Maine. I recall he was working at the time (perhaps we caught him on his lunch break), so we just exchanged how-ya-bins and promised to catch up another time. After all, there's always tomorrow. Which I why I write this today.
I received a short note from Jim last week, the first in many years. Enclosed was the program from "A Service of Loving Remembrance for Stuart Wilson Perkins: May 1, 1951 - October 5, 2011." The service was held on October 29 at Guilford United Methodist Church in Guilford, Maine. Not far from where that photo was taken. I looked Stuart up on the Bangor Daily News obituary page. Obits always put a positive spin on things, but it looks like he had a full and rewarding life. He went to college, got married, had a son, and worked hard all his life. He gave back, first as a volunteer firefighter in Guilford, and later in Florida (where he moved in 1994) as a volunteer at Tidewell Hospice in Sarasota. I remember him as a good kid who loved baseball and his friends and family. He always showed up for work and play with a positive attitude and a smile on his face. His obituary states: "Stuart will be remembered as having the gift of never having known a stranger." That's Maine-speak for he was one heck of a good person who was loved by all. It fits him well that the kid I remember grew into a decent human being.
We only get to go around life's bases once, and Stuart Perkins rounded them in style. He could have been on my team anytime. Maybe one day I can be his teammate again.
http://bangordailynews.com/2011/10/10/obituaries/stuart-w-perkins/
. . .and so it starts. . .one wonders what our lives would have been without baseball growing up. . . .Maine, Ohio. . .it was all the same. . .we found the kid who had the best ball with the least amount of electrical tape on it. . .if we played in the streets, a heavy metal rake was standard equipment for when the ball went down the sewer and we had to fish it out--because nobody really wanted to lift up the grate and climb down. . .we played and played and played. . . .until the streetlights flickered--that was our only real signal that it was time to call it a night. . .if we played at a field. . .there were old newspapers for bases that we weighed down with rocks. . .you picked teams by flipping the bat and the captains climbing the bats with their hands one by one. . .and if there was just enough room, the last person had a ringer by picking the bat up by the top of the handle--he chose first. . .when we weren't doing this, we were flipping baseball cards or foolishly (now, hindsight) attaching them with clothespins to our bike wheels just to hear the noise. . .and as it happens in Maine and Ohio and all over. . . . .the teams eventually lose their way. . .to older things. . .mostly to girls. . .but, once was the time when the grass was always green. . . .and all of our teammates were alive. . .and there was the crack of the bat and the smack of the mitt. . .and all things were possible. . .
ReplyDeleteBen. . .a great first post! As you can tell. . . . .you brought back memories. . .now. . .about those Red Sox. . .