I'd always told people that I moved to New Jersey when I was twelve. Technically, this was not true, however. My family moved to New Jersey in January, the 20th to be precise, and my birthday falls in September. So in actuality I moved to Jersey when I was eleven. That explains why I was able to play two years of Little League there.Baseball was a big part of my life in those days. In Little League I was a pitcher/infielder, and above average with a bat. We played every day in Maple Heights, the suburb of Cleveland where I grew up. When spring rolls around the first thing you do is look for the pickup game in your neighborhood.
In Jersey, our temporary first home was a rental property on Highway 202-206 with no running hot water. We stayed there while the new split level suburban house was being built over the mountain, the first foothill of the Watchung range in Bridgewater. The kids in the neighborhood welcomed my brother and I to play ball with them, and we eagerly joined.
Something I did a lot was call out the score, announce the game as it was going along, how many outs there were, etc. It was a form of leadership, I'd like to believe, or maybe I was just a blabbermouth, always announcing what was going on as if it were a big deal. I think I just wanted everyone to be on the same page. But especially so when the inning ended and teams exchanged roles between being on and off the field.
On one occasion during one of those early games, the other team scored a run and I announced, "Five to two," to let everyone know that was their second run and we were no only ahead by three. Louis P, a tough kid who was a year older than I and captain of the other team, shouted back that the score was five to three, that they had three runs.
Naturally, being a little anal about accuracy in these matters, I objected and replied that the score was five to two. I proceeded to review in my mind the plays in which the two runs were knocked in, and began to lay this out before him as he was approaching. He walked up to me and grabbed my shoulders with rough hands. "It's five to three," he declared.
"No, it's only five to two," I said with conviction.
In a totally unexpected move, he kneed me in the groin. I was eleven and did what eleven year olds often do when a bully strikes them. I went crying home to my mother, hurting quite badly from the blow. I vividly remember sprinting across the field and up between the houses to my back door, serious tears streaming.
Running into the house, I told what happened. Mom came across very matter of fact in her response. In effect she said, "Do you like playing baseball? Well, those are the kids in the neighborhood that you have to get along with if you want to play ball."
And yes, I wanted to play ball. It was a little different kind of crowd from the kids in my old neighborhood in Maple Heights. But I found my place and learned a few lessons that would stand me well over the years. For example, if you are getting beat up, don't fall to the ground because they will also stomp on your head. And make sure you protect what your vulnerable spots.
In the bigger world there really are some different kinds of animals out there. Not everyone plays by the rules. You just have to be a little wary, and know what's important to you. Not everyone plays nice. On the other hand, that's no reason to quit.
Sports can bring all kinds of people together. And it can teach us many lessons. This week the Olympics have convened in Beijing. The opening ceremonies were a spectacle. There will be new records set, no doubt, and heartbreaking losses for many. Hopefully the scoring will be accurate and fair, and the world will be reminded of the important lesson these games are intended to teach: that as fellow creatures on a finite planet we must learn how to get along.
