When I told him I was disappointed that not all of the players were wearing their uniforms, he pointed to one who was, standing alone by his locker. “How about that guy?” It was Number Eight, Carl Yastrzemski.
In January of 1962, my grandfather took me to The Annual Meet-The-Red-Sox Day at Fenway Park in Boston, where I got to shake hands with the likes of hot-corner patrolman, Frank Malzone, and pitching phenom, Don Schwall, the 1961 Rookie of the Year. I could hardly waitfor the big leaguers to ink their names into my new, maroon autograph book.
Night baseball – it was one of the perks of summer and a way of life for many of us on the sandlot. It didn’t matter that the ball was unseeable. What mattered was the adventure of playing baseball in the twilight.
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.
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