The mind wanders a little on a very cold winter day, adding more misery to the already COVID-19 stressed. Are these the best of days – worst of days? The old, retired fisherman remembers some more pleasant events witnessed.
It was the annual Big Ten rivalry game at the season’s close. A group of friends were sitting in their seats, the stands filled with snow. People were bundled up in parkas, big boots, big gloves, stocking caps, some no doubt in sleeping bags. COLD!!!
The score and details of the game are long since past, because the most memorable memory isn’t what happened on the field in the old stadium. The twice-replaced hallowed old stadium had been built shortly after World War I. We sat on long wooden planks. Like most stadiums in America, before the corporations paid hard-pressed towns and schools much-needed funding – it was called “Memorial” – in memory of soldiers who’d given their last for their country.
The memorable event was an incredible on-going performance by one man. He was seated below us a few rows, and to our left. He was a dedicated smoker. At first we didn’t notice him, then sat in wonder and watched him. In this frigid scene, among the shivering multitudes, every 10 minutes or so, it happened. Off would come the gloves, out would come the lighter and current cigarette. With freezing glove-less hands, the tobacco tube would be lit. After the requisite puffs, back would go the gloves. And so it went for the entire game.
There was a fellow, a 2nd-3rd line “hockey player” on a mediocre D-III team. He had one talent. He could shoot the puck, quite hard, where he wanted it to go. This mediocre team had a very good goalie. He had to be. At least one season the goalie was “All-Conference. He obviously kept this mediocre team in a lot of games.
There was one thing that bugged this star goalie no end. It seems the 2nd-3rd string “hockey player” could score on him at will. This went on for some time. The “player” didn’t think about it. He just did it, at virtually every practice.
Finally, the star goalie requested the “player” to help him exorcise the demon bedeviling him. The star goalie ‘requested” the “player’ attend a private practice – of two.
So, on another cold winter day, outside [who had indoor rinks?]. The two of them worked out. The “player” would make repeated rushes at the goalie and shoot the puck. They started slow, with the normal easy shots, working their way up to real attempts by the “player” to beat the goalie. Some of his confidence restored, the goalie eventually said it was time to quit.
So, they resumed their roles. The star goalie played regularly, starting every game. The “player” enjoyed fleeting moments when he played.
Two 30-ish devout baseball fans had been given free tickets by a very fine friend who worked for the home team. For this game, their tickets were behind home plate, just behind the pipes that outlined the high price tickets, at this time probably about $3.50.
The now twice-replaced stadium was a typical l950’s creation. All outdoors. No expensive boxes for the top 1%. Seating in the outfield bleachers was long wooden planks. On a nice summer day, the place of dreams. On a cold late season day during football season, one endured – hoping a neighbor didn’t need to visit the little boy’s room. Then, a row of grumbling fans would have to stand in their sleeping bags – and do it over again when the villain returned.
On this fine summer day, a high foul ball arched over the tall screen behind home plate. A major league ball!!! A giant scrum of nearly two dozen ball hawks franticly sought the prize missile. The two 30-ish devout fans sat, unmoving in their seats, watching events unfold, totally without any desire to become involved in the writhing pile of humanity.
Slowly, with some difficulty, because of numbers of of semi-sober people, because of the pipes outlining the box seats – the giant piggy pile began to unwind. People got up, without the ball. More people, mostly men, got up. Getting down close to concrete!!!
There was one last humanoid laying on the concrete, stretched over two levels of concrete amid the pipes above. It was a woman, laying face up, not moving much. It was quite apparent, that although not injured, she was not in the best shape to lift herself off the concrete. It was also quite apparent, she had most likely previously consumed some of the local breweries’ finest beverages.
The two 30-ish, non ball-hawking observers also noticed one other thing.
She didn’t have the ball.
The mediocre, 2nd-3rd string D-III “hockey player” had one moment of glory. it symbolized his “career.” It was the only goal he scored.
It seemed the coach was a friend of the coach of this school’s biggest rival. So they often scrimmaged. On this occasion it was inside a recently opened indoor hockey rink, which over time witnessed some very memorable contests. Not included in that list of memorable contest was this scrimmage.
The rival school usually won the official league games. But, the mediocre team often won the meaningless scrimmages.
In this scrimmage, the mediocre “player” was playing defense. The puck was passed to him at his offensive zone blue line. He fired a laser beam, wrist shot, into the lower right hand corner. GOAL!!!
After that, he turned around a set up for the face-off. No high-fives. Only lost, precious ice time while players reassembled. This ‘goal” would never be ‘official.”
After that, the puck was frequently passed to him for more shots. He never scored again. Thus, like his “career,” the ‘goal” didn’t count.
There was this baseball youth coach. He had a good team. They went to play an away game. When the team arrived, the players started yelling about the right field fence. It was close. VERY close. TOO close.
The coach gathered his players. Fearing the players would all try to hit home runs over this fence, a warning was issued. “Anybody that hits a ball over that fence is out of the game,” was the ultimatum. The coach was reassured. None of his players would screw up their swings trying for a cheap home run.
It was a well-intentioned plan, but unnecessary. His pitcher threw a no-hitter. The game was never close. Then came the unintended event.
The coach had forgotten that one of his outfielders was a natural left-handed batter. This young man had a very nice, fluid, sweet natural left-handed batting stroke,\.
Several innings into this one-sided game, the lefty came to bat. there were runners on base. The pitch came. So did that sweet swing. CRACK!!!!! A high-arching, long fly ball sailed far over that obscene fence – a no-doubter.
The runners came around. Then the ‘hero.” Tears were coming down his face. He looked at the coach, and said: “Am I out of the game?”
The coach, caught on his own petard, was forced to say “Yes.”
There was this decent fast pitch softball player who could run. He knew the game, didn’t make mistakes. Not a great hitter, but he could bunt. In this game, he’d worked his way around to 3rd base. Less than two outs.
He noticed the pitcher and catcher were not paying any attention to him. The catcher was throwing “rainbows” back to the pitcher after every pitch. He decided to try a delayed steal of home.
After the next pitch, the “rainbow” throw, he was off. He had it beat, but slid instead of running through. The large catcher blocked the plate “out.”
Soon after, this same player is on 3rd base again. This time the pitcher and catcher know he’s there! Rockets back to the pitcher. The pitcher is looking at him at every pitch. In fact, as the pitcher winds up, he’s still looking toward the runner on 3rd base.
After a few pitches, the distracted pitcher throws a wild pitch on the ground through the catcher. The runner races home with a free run.
The moment of ‘glory” that wasn’t. The mediocre 2nd-3rd string “hockey player” was on the ice killing a penalty. Surprising in itself.
In his defensive zone, at the blue line, he intercepted an errant pass. Putting the best move on the opponent of his ‘career,’ the opponent’s jock strap was left hanging from the rafters of the indoor rink.
“Breakaway!!!” A “hockey player’s” dream. Off to the left is his penalty-killing teammate, slightly ahead. He has a big smile on his face. They’re off on the rush.
Memories fade, but at most there can be only one opponent between them and the opponents goal, and one of the true possible turning points in any hockey game – a short-handed goal. It was not to be.
Our “hockey player’ and his senior mate are skating, ever briefly alone up ice.
Then – the period ending horn. Out of playing time. There’d be no glory.
All the more frustrating, the game went into overtime. It ended tied.
Some memories, and events are much more meaningful then the actual event itself. This memory is one of those.
Our “decent’ softball player is on 3rd base. Less than two outs. A sharp ground ball is hit into the SS-3rd base “hole.” The shortstop ranged over, makes the good backhand stop. He straightens to fire the ball to first base, and does so.
Our “player” watches, as soon as the shortstop throws to 1st base – he’s off for home. He scores in a slide. All runs in fast pitch softball are big.
This one is special. As the ‘player” runs to the team sitting place on the grass, he noticed a special observer – his father.
The father had been a great college baseball player, and also the “player’s” first baseball coach.
The memory was special to the “player’ because, in front of his father, he’d played the game like it was meant to be played. Nothing else counted.
There was this mediocre golfer. His game deteriorated as he got closer to the hole. His best “talent” was driving off the tee.
On this particular occasion, he and 3 of his friends were playing on a private course, courtesy of one of them.
It was the mediocre golfer’s turn to drive. He took out a brand new ball, placed it on a tee. Got prepared to hit.
On this tee, there was a large oak tree off to the side. Our mediocre golfer wound up a swung, hit a mammoth shot off legendary, epic proportions.
This “moon shot” flew directly into one of the limbs of the great, at that point, unmarked, oak tree. In a millisecond, it flew directly into the pond opposite.
The resulting moments had 3 of the mediocre golfer’s friends laying on the tee, besides themselves in laughter. The fog of memory doesn’t record whether our mediocre golfer broke 100 on the round. But, his friends didn’t care.
With Justice For All 