My mother grew up in the Bronx until she was 17 and was a Yankees fan. My father grew up in the geographical middle of Red Sox Nation and was loyal to that tribe. Friends and family used to refer to their’s as a “mixed marriage”.
On our screened-in back porch, when my dad listened to Baltimore Oriole games on the radio, during the game the rule in the family was no talking on the porch! Baseball was holy (and golf). And in our Catholic family, that's saying a lot!
Two things were way better in the 1960s than they were ever after -- music, and baseball.
I can name more baseball players from the 1960s than I can who are playing now. Of your beloved Cards ... Curt Flood. Bob Gibson. Lou Brock. Dick Groat. Ken Boyer. Bill White. Probably a few more, if I close my eyes, grab my glove and run out the door.
That sounds wonderful. I can relate to your baseball playing childhood. I can almost picture it. Growing up, my brother and I also spent hours in the yard playing catch. We'd love to practice pitching. Begrudgingly, I had to also add in the softball throwing & pitching because that's what the girls could play. My dad participated in that. When I joined two teams, he coached one of them. All that playing led to a few ribbons for me for longest softball throw in school field days.
One memory that sticks is when my grandpa gave me some pitching tips during a visit. He had been a baseball pitcher and had been offered a pro contract way back. So, I knew he must have been good. He taught me how and when to throw a change up pitch. I did it in the next game, while he was watching, and struck out the batter. He was so happy and so was I. There was a time when both my brother and I had dreams of playing ball forever. We played up until high school, then had over dreams for ourselves. I played some again as a young adult in a co-ed work colleague league. It was more social, but I knew what I was doing. It was really fun while it lasted.
My kids shifted from t-ball to soccer almost right off the bat. Maybe one of the future grandkids will play. I'll keep my mitt, just in case.
My brother had me batting whiffleball when I was four and he was ten. At five, I was in love with Mickey Mantle* and wanted to be the first female professional baseball player**.
Hockey's my sport now, though it was fun teaching my son to cheer at a Rockies game when he was a toddler.
* I know. I KNOW.
** What's up, patriarchy? I didn't even notice that I was wanting no one else to get there before I did! I am ashamed.
Nope. Don't be ashamed. For myself, I knew that 1) my skills weren't professional-level and 2) there were no women and I wasn't going to be good enough to be the first. I would have gladly cheered you on, no jealousy.
It turned out not to be a passion in my even-slighter-longer life, though I was good for a whiffleballer. I didn't care for softball, and I would probably have been quite put out by being hit by a baseball.
I was pretty obtuse about a lot of the extreme misogynistic gendering of our times, but I clearly internalized the notion that women don't do certain things [because not good enough].
Cool story! My uncle Jimmy with that knob on his forehead, at the end of his career as a dead beat (his words), had this little transistor radio he used to listen to his balk games. We had a swanky new TV in the front room, but he had been in jail. You’d hear him cussing on the porch, on the front yard, in the truck--and folk’s wonder why I cuss like a sailor! I think he liked tie portability of his radio, especially when Aunty Mary Lou (no relation to Jimmy) called time to pick beans--we all ran away from this chore! Anyway, he loved the Cardinal games and his Camels, no filters, please!
Ruminate forward a few decades, my only son put a ball in his mouth probably around up-on-the-knees era of his explorations and his love of balls began. As a toddler he slept with Ole’ One Arm (his one-armed doll) and a plethora of all kinds of balls. We’d wake him up for day care and we’d have to grab the edges of his He Man blanket and parachute the balls off his bed--like, so we could find him. My favorite picture of him is him poised as a batter with his red Cardinals jersey and hat.
Susan, I’m ballin’ in the car outside our temporary apartment building. THANK YOU 🙏🏽 SO so so so much for your story. Peace.
Your uncle Jimmy sounds like my Uncle Alex, only your Uncle Jimmy sounds like he had more charm. I had a little red transistor radio with a white ear plug. It was tinny. It was hard to hear. It was awesome.
My lifetime identity is directly connected to growing up in metro Baltimore as an Orioles fan more than five decades ago. Throughout moves to New Jersey, Maine, and Connecticut, I have remained a steadfast Orioles fan. Go, baseball!
I'm old enough to remember cheering along with Wild Bill (I was a college student in Maryland and introduced rather quickly to that particular section of the stadium).
Wild Bill Hagy, Section 33 of Memorial Stadium! He got that place rocking in 1979, which featured my favorite Orioles team ever (even though they lost the Series to the Pirates in seven games).
Yup. Came north to college and stayed. Except for two years out of college for my first job in northern Maine, I’ve lived in the Nutmeg State. Proud to call myself a transplanted New Englander.
This brings back memories of playing ball with my siblings and kids (mostly boys) in my neighborhood. We would play for hours in our backyard and then move the games to the dirt parking lot on our street. The popping sound of a ball meeting the glove, loved it. As a family, we would gather and watch baseball on TV, especially on weekends.
I married into a baseball clan, one that put my Red-Sox-loving family into amateur territory. My husband's cousin was a major league career pitcher and pitching coach. It's been fun to answer when people ask me, "Are you a Red Sox or a Yankee fan?" I can say, "Dodgers. Family, you know."
I have very fuzzy memories of attending Washington Senators games with my father. The Orioles did their spring training in Miami when we lived there. We went to a lot of those games, too.
My mother grew up in the Bronx until she was 17 and was a Yankees fan. My father grew up in the geographical middle of Red Sox Nation and was loyal to that tribe. Friends and family used to refer to their’s as a “mixed marriage”.
Oh BIG time, mixed marriage.
Thanks for this story about America’s game.
In many ways baseball tells the story of my life and American history from the late 19th century to the present time
I was figuring out batting averages and earned run averages by the time I was in first grade
When I wasn’t playing little league or Babe Ruth league or American legion baseball I was often playing pickup games in our neighborhood
One of the most memorable games I played in was actually a pickup game in our neighborhood
There were 9 kids 7 of which were little league age and 2 older sisters of friends who were there
We were talking turns batting when a little league team and their coaches came by and asked if they could use the field to practice
We told them they could use the field if they would play a scrimmage game against us
The players from the little league team saw the girls and started laughing and agreed to the game
Little did they know that they weren’t playing a game against a team with girls
They were playing against a bunch of baseball players
We let the older sister who was 14 at the time pitch
Every time she struck out a player they would go back to the bench crying
The coach sounded like Tom Hanks from A League of Their Own
There’s no crying in baseball
The pitcher from the team really had a bad experience
Not only did he strike out but the girls were hitting line drives against him
He threw his glove down after one of the girls hit a double against him
After the game we asked them if they wanted to play basketball
They tearfully declined
Oh! I LOVE that story.
On our screened-in back porch, when my dad listened to Baltimore Oriole games on the radio, during the game the rule in the family was no talking on the porch! Baseball was holy (and golf). And in our Catholic family, that's saying a lot!
Go Cards!!!
Hell YEAH, go, Cards.
Great happy Friday story, start the day with a smile. Go, Jon-Jon!
Jon-Jon's the bomb.
Two things were way better in the 1960s than they were ever after -- music, and baseball.
I can name more baseball players from the 1960s than I can who are playing now. Of your beloved Cards ... Curt Flood. Bob Gibson. Lou Brock. Dick Groat. Ken Boyer. Bill White. Probably a few more, if I close my eyes, grab my glove and run out the door.
Bob Gibson. Ken Boyer was from down our part of the state, and one of my best friends married into the clan.
That sounds wonderful. I can relate to your baseball playing childhood. I can almost picture it. Growing up, my brother and I also spent hours in the yard playing catch. We'd love to practice pitching. Begrudgingly, I had to also add in the softball throwing & pitching because that's what the girls could play. My dad participated in that. When I joined two teams, he coached one of them. All that playing led to a few ribbons for me for longest softball throw in school field days.
One memory that sticks is when my grandpa gave me some pitching tips during a visit. He had been a baseball pitcher and had been offered a pro contract way back. So, I knew he must have been good. He taught me how and when to throw a change up pitch. I did it in the next game, while he was watching, and struck out the batter. He was so happy and so was I. There was a time when both my brother and I had dreams of playing ball forever. We played up until high school, then had over dreams for ourselves. I played some again as a young adult in a co-ed work colleague league. It was more social, but I knew what I was doing. It was really fun while it lasted.
My kids shifted from t-ball to soccer almost right off the bat. Maybe one of the future grandkids will play. I'll keep my mitt, just in case.
Keep the mitt. You never know. And maybe you and I should have a catch. I have a rag arm, despite years behind the plate as a catcher.
My brother had me batting whiffleball when I was four and he was ten. At five, I was in love with Mickey Mantle* and wanted to be the first female professional baseball player**.
Hockey's my sport now, though it was fun teaching my son to cheer at a Rockies game when he was a toddler.
* I know. I KNOW.
** What's up, patriarchy? I didn't even notice that I was wanting no one else to get there before I did! I am ashamed.
Nope. Don't be ashamed. For myself, I knew that 1) my skills weren't professional-level and 2) there were no women and I wasn't going to be good enough to be the first. I would have gladly cheered you on, no jealousy.
It turned out not to be a passion in my even-slighter-longer life, though I was good for a whiffleballer. I didn't care for softball, and I would probably have been quite put out by being hit by a baseball.
I was pretty obtuse about a lot of the extreme misogynistic gendering of our times, but I clearly internalized the notion that women don't do certain things [because not good enough].
I think we all did, on some level. I loved the sport but never thought to make a career out of it.
Cool story! My uncle Jimmy with that knob on his forehead, at the end of his career as a dead beat (his words), had this little transistor radio he used to listen to his balk games. We had a swanky new TV in the front room, but he had been in jail. You’d hear him cussing on the porch, on the front yard, in the truck--and folk’s wonder why I cuss like a sailor! I think he liked tie portability of his radio, especially when Aunty Mary Lou (no relation to Jimmy) called time to pick beans--we all ran away from this chore! Anyway, he loved the Cardinal games and his Camels, no filters, please!
Ruminate forward a few decades, my only son put a ball in his mouth probably around up-on-the-knees era of his explorations and his love of balls began. As a toddler he slept with Ole’ One Arm (his one-armed doll) and a plethora of all kinds of balls. We’d wake him up for day care and we’d have to grab the edges of his He Man blanket and parachute the balls off his bed--like, so we could find him. My favorite picture of him is him poised as a batter with his red Cardinals jersey and hat.
Susan, I’m ballin’ in the car outside our temporary apartment building. THANK YOU 🙏🏽 SO so so so much for your story. Peace.
Your uncle Jimmy sounds like my Uncle Alex, only your Uncle Jimmy sounds like he had more charm. I had a little red transistor radio with a white ear plug. It was tinny. It was hard to hear. It was awesome.
I still have a little radio. I use it when warshing dishes!
Cool. Great story.! Baseball, Jesus and Grandkids not always in that order.
My lifetime identity is directly connected to growing up in metro Baltimore as an Orioles fan more than five decades ago. Throughout moves to New Jersey, Maine, and Connecticut, I have remained a steadfast Orioles fan. Go, baseball!
I'm old enough to remember cheering along with Wild Bill (I was a college student in Maryland and introduced rather quickly to that particular section of the stadium).
Wild Bill Hagy, Section 33 of Memorial Stadium! He got that place rocking in 1979, which featured my favorite Orioles team ever (even though they lost the Series to the Pirates in seven games).
That's the year I started at Univ. of MD, my junior year. What a great time that was.
I was a senior in high school, about 20 miles northeast of the city. One year later, I'd be a freshman at Quinnipiac College.
So you came north? I mostly moved laterally -- Missouri to Maryland. Silly me, I thought Maryland was more north (in its attitudes) until I got there.
Yup. Came north to college and stayed. Except for two years out of college for my first job in northern Maine, I’ve lived in the Nutmeg State. Proud to call myself a transplanted New Englander.
This brings back memories of playing ball with my siblings and kids (mostly boys) in my neighborhood. We would play for hours in our backyard and then move the games to the dirt parking lot on our street. The popping sound of a ball meeting the glove, loved it. As a family, we would gather and watch baseball on TV, especially on weekends.
It is just a wonderful game. I can still talk about the Cardinals with my brothers, when politics and religion feel threadbare.
I married into a baseball clan, one that put my Red-Sox-loving family into amateur territory. My husband's cousin was a major league career pitcher and pitching coach. It's been fun to answer when people ask me, "Are you a Red Sox or a Yankee fan?" I can say, "Dodgers. Family, you know."
Wow. So you are related to baseball royalty. That's pretty cool.
I have very fuzzy memories of attending Washington Senators games with my father. The Orioles did their spring training in Miami when we lived there. We went to a lot of those games, too.
I have never been to a spring training game. I think I'll put that on my bucket list.