The dream of hauling down sky-high fly balls at Fenway never did come true. The one about writing a book, however, did. But it’s not about baseball.
Spitball pitcher Gaylord Perry once said, “I reckon I tried everything on the old apple, but salt and pepper and chocolate sauce topping.” Well, we played on the sandlot with a few baseballs that had those exact coatings...
Some of the things I remember most about the 1963 Little League All Star Games: strike outs, banana splits and a redeeming shoe-string catch.
The bunt sign - it bothered me. I’d rather suffer the hand stings of a broken bat after hitting a ball on a freezing cold day than have to comply with my coach’s cryptic signals to tap the ball in play.
As a kid, there was one movie that meant more to me than any other. Every Sunday morning I’d scour the movie listing section of the TV insert in the Boston Globe praying it would be aired.
Change is never easy. In the beginning, it can be down-right uncomfortable. But… it can also lead to a brand new ball game.
When I saw that the surprise was not a Red Sox ticket I was disappointed. When I saw that it was one of his business papers I was even more discouraged. My father said, “Turn it sideways.” I did and this is what I saw:
One of my presents for Christmas 1960, was a 1961 diary. When I opened the book this weekend a folded piece of paper fell onto my lap. Right away, I knew what it was. I carefully placed it beside me and started reading about how I spent the summer of 1961.
Big O shares his memories of playing sandlot baseball in New Hampshire during the early 1960s. In addition to describing how his gang tossed for teams, he discusses the dreaded “Indian Rubber Rules” employed by those “Live Free or Die” boys of summer.
After a telephone call to my father on Sunday, I thought back to Little League days. Although he didn’t come to many games, because he always seemed to be working, he’d want to know how I did at the plate.
Phil Rando was the "go-to" guy when it came to delivering timely, conversational base hits in most of our classes at Archbishop Williams High School. He not only was adept at taking classroom arguments apart, he could do the same with old cars and go karts.
Classroom discussions in high school were a lot like baseball games. Teachers served a dual role. On one hand, they were the opposing pitchers, firing blazing questions tempered with sneaky curves and drop-dead change-ups that could make you look silly. And on the other hand, they were coaches, challenging us (the classroom hitters) to take our swings at homework’s high heat assigned to us the previous night.
By keeping score, I learned a little about desire and a lot about life. I became a fan of the game a long time ago thanks to scoreboards, a Green Monster, and kids that sprinted to the outfield, ready to play.
Three friends and fans of baseball share some of their sandlot memories. One of them, Kim Parrott of Glendale, Arizona, said, "My knees still have old scars on them from falling on the asphalt time after time.”
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