"This Field...This Game"--Introduction

Introduction

There are two moments from my youth and my days of being a ballplayer that I remember with utmost detail. My first memory is of that hot day when my father drove me to the local little league park in 1986 and told me I was going to be a baseball player. The second one, which came only months later, is the day I told my dad I wanted to quit.

When I was about the age of eleven, my father took me to a little league park and had me wait inside the cab to his pickup truck while he got out and spoke with a man who I later learned ran the league. Despite having an impeccable memory of my childhood, those particular moments at the field that day are sparse. I do recall however, it being very hot, as it always is during the summertime in Texas and I remember my father’s truck. My father drove a 1972 Chevrolet long-bed pickup truck, two-tone, green and white, and it rolled down the streets of my neighborhood bellowing a distinct muffled sound.

Often when reminiscing with my brothers and sisters, we laugh and smile as we recall the same association with regards to our memories of that muffled sound. And like each of our memories, they were good, because the roar that came from those pipes as my dad’s truck skid across the broken gravel of our home street in the north side of Ft. Worth, meant dad was coming home to us. On that same note however, it also meant you were about to answer to the long list of things you did wrong that day or any of the reasons why you might have gotten out of hand with mom, who stayed home to run our house. If that was the case, you knew, as did everyone in my home, that once you heard those pipes roar from the accelerated fumes of dad’s truck, you were in for it. Being on the receiving end of dad’s belt—or his fatherly way of scolding you for how you behaved—was never a good thing. Today I say that with a smile.

Anyhow, back to his truck and that summer day at the park. I recall a conversation taking place between my father and that man who ran the league, whose name I would later learn, was Pedro.  A few moments later, and again, remember I was eleven, so it could have been five minutes later or five hours for all I knew, but either way I do remember this man Pedro, who was tall and thin with a long unkempt moustache, who had the look of a man too pre-occupied with life to devote himself to children, asking me if I was going to be a baseball player. I remember being very shy back then, partly due to the fact that I was growing and my body was going through that awkward stage, when your arms and legs didn’t seem to fit your torso or head. I don’t know exactly what I told him, but I am quite sure, being so close to my father as I was—and still am—I said yes. Looking back now, some twenty-odd years later, I know I didn’t have a clue what I was saying “yes” to. The most I knew about the game of baseball was what my father and I discussed while watching the Rangers on television and the memories I had from our first game at the old ballpark in Arlington when I was a kid. I got my first glove from that game; you remember those cheap plastic things they gave away that cracked and split down the middle the first time they got wet? That was my first real mit. My only other memory associated with this game came from those nights my brother came home from his high-school games and I listened to the magical sound of his metal spikes as he tracked across the hardwood floor in our home and then disappeared into his room.

My memories of my first season of organized baseball are again—hit or miss—no pun intended. I can say this boldly now, without fear of being mocked or humiliated, my first season with the Riverside Little League Hawk’s had to be the worse record of play in little league history. You remember that kid who went to bat with two outs in the inning, and every player on the bench reached for their glove and got ready to take the field, knowing the third out was about to take his place within the batter’s box? Well, that kid was me. The closest I came to ever hitting the ball, my entire first season of baseball, may have been taking a hit for the team—a bean ball—and that doesn’t count on the books as a hit.

Now back to the park and that hot summer day. There I was, standing beside my father answering the question I am quite sure every eleven-year old boy wants to answer with confidence while in the presence of the man he looks up to and without a moments delay—a loud YES, I am a baseball player! Pedro told me to hop in the back of his truck and there in a box I could sort through some pants until I found a pair that fit. I remember being very excited about the whole ordeal, I mean there they were, real life baseball player pants, with the belt-loops and shiny buttons and I only had to find the right pair to fit me, so I could begin the metamorphosis from neighborhood kid to little leaguer aficionado. But after a few moments of rummaging through an assortment of sizes, the only thing I found that would fit a kid of my frame and size—extra skinny—was a pathetic pair of off-white pants, with a solid green stripe running down the outside of each pant leg and you guessed it, no belt loops, just an elastic band. A few moments later I was holding an even uglier black shirt—black in the summertime, black—with white letters ironed across the front that read HAWK’s, and to top it all off, I was handed my hat. The hat was black and it was similar to the type of hats worn by many truckers in the 70’s and 80’s—a one-size-fits-all, large screened mesh hat with button snaps on the back and a large foam front that had a simple white “H” pressed on the front.

I grew up in a neighborhood that had a passion for baseball but no funding to support its own little league organization—much less parental support—so taking what we could from the surrounding cities and more well-to-do leagues, we wore simple uniforms and t-shirts with a team name—no logos and no embroidery. Being so skinny didn’t help the fact that my shirt was too small, too short to tuck into my pants elastic band.

So, here I was, a baseball player whose pants didn’t match the rest of my team, much less stay up without a belt and whose shirt was too short to tuck in, and holding this ensemble of major league regalia was a skinny frame, long bony arms and legs and a crooked smile behind overgrown bangs and a trucker hat with that large ironed-on letter “H.” I was quite the site.

I arrived at the park for the ceremonial procession in the summer of 1986 with my plastic glove whose fate had not yet been determined by the first rainy day practice or game. The weather was hot; the fields were old and tattered, with scorched grass partially worn by the sun and lack of water. The fence was old and it didn’t have the fancy advertisements posed proudly along the outfield wall like those better established leagues, whose community business and volunteer leaders swarm to support. It was green and faded with missing posts and holes just large enough for the rats who rummaged through the concession stand trash to squeeze through whenever someone hit a line-drive into centerfield.

There was no music, no photo booths or shouts from the stands, instead we were encapsulated within the steady echo of passing cars as they ripped through the downtown area off I-35 Southbound. But in the end, all that mattered little to me or any of the members of my team, because we were taking steps towards becoming something greater than ourselves—something more than what was expected of us or anyone else we may have grown up with in the neighborhood. I was going to be a baseball player and my name would be called above the sounds of life, people would stand in thunderous applause as I took my place within the batter’s box and after the hit, a single would become a double, a double stretched into a triple and I would walk safely into home, lightly tapping home plate as I tipped a salute with my helmet. It was going to be great.

Needless to say, the most amazing part about being young is the luxury of naivety and the freedom to dream. None of those things ever happened to me. Instead, I struck out each time I came to bat, rarely walked to first base for fear of not swinging the bat, which made me a far worse hitter, as I could have swung if the pitcher never released the ball. I was hit a few times and felt the joy of standing on first base—of being in the game—and faced a new fear when I arrived. I didn’t know how to run the bases! When I did score, nobody cheered apart from my dad and it wasn’t often enough because I didn’t do that much on the field. By the time my first season was coming to a close, I had the talk with my father. I told him I wanted to quit.My life and my experiences within this wonderfully beautiful game, a sport which at times can appear much bigger than life itself, would change forever after that conversation with my father.…

to be continued…  
Bobby Ozuna | www.BobbyOzunaOnline.com