.... where family is the source of humor!

Band Box Baseball by Robert Crane

Lazy hazy days of summer are ebbing away to the sounds of school buses once more rumbling up and down the streets. Amazing how quickly those three short months pass by - but, my oh my, the opportunities those days hold for chidlren to create memories to look back upon as adults. Robert shares a humorous essay about his youth and baseball for readers of Humor Is Relative to enjoy!

Part One of Band Box Baseball

"Fo! Or!"

"One-zeees!"

"Two," a shy, shallow voice proclaimed. It was Paula or better known as "Miss Park", the only girl brave enough to play with the riff raff. I was probably eying her at the time because she was really cute. Unfortunately, she had an older brother who was pretty protective of her, which explained why none of us ever had the nerve to approach her--probably not a bad thing for all involved.

Anyway Mr. Fitz had the train back on the track; that is until it got to Rick, another one of my younger brothers. He was scratching the back of his throat with his index finger, drifting off into his own little dream world. The train came to a grinding halt, as it almost always did when it got to Rick's station.

"Ricky Crane! Oh Ricky Crane! Earth to Ricky!"

"Twelve!" Rick yelled out. Some of the parents laughed.

Doug smacked his own forehead with open palm in disbelief and embarrassment.

"No Ricky. You are TWO. Remember that! You are TWO!"

I think in the three years that Rick participated in these drills he got it wrong all but twice, not because he was stupid but because he floated in and out of consciousness.

The count miraculously found its way to conclusion.

"Okay guys! Listen up! I want the ONES and FOURS …"

He is temporarily drowned out by a chorus of simultaneous moans and cheers as kids immediately sized up their strategies to see who they would be playing with. There were always some winners and some vocal losers.

"Hey quiet down!"

The groans subsided as the kids got ready to storm the field and lay claim to the position they wanted to play. They immediately started searching for their gloves; some to tie their sneakers. A couple of kids paced. Itchy Nick and a few others nervously plucked at their crotch as they rocked side to side on their feet, acting as if their bladders were about to explode. Others knelt down into a sprinter's position waiting for the sound of the starting gun. They were all poised for the next command to get this thing going--even Rick had removed his finger from his mouth in full concentration.

"Okay, TWOS and THREES …" he paused as a teaser, feeling a certain amount of joy knowing that this was one of a handful of moments he, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to obtain the rapt attention of fifty kids between the ages of six and ten.

"… are …" Another pause.

" … BATTING!"

And like a truckload of squirrels let loose on a chestnut tree farm, twenty five "ones and fours" scurried out onto the field, claimed their favorite positions, while the twenty five "twos and threes" scrambled to line up to bat.

Mr. Fitz took his place at the pitcher's mound. My dad got behind the plate. Legions of locals lined up their lawn chairs and tonics along the sidewalk, protected behind a six foot high hurricane fence.

It was time to play a little ball; a little Band Box Baseball.

To this day, I am not sure who actually dreamed up this game. I am equally puzzled by the name, "Band Box Baseball". It really doesn't make any sense to me. I don't believe it was a sponsored township activity, in the same way the little league was. It just may have been a few dads who wanted to have a little fun and give first, second and third graders a chance to learn the game they so loved.

It was always played on Tuesday and Thursday nights at our local grammar school. The field itself was a paved playground. The only signs of grass were random clumps of weeds that somehow managed to grow through cracks in the asphalt. The part of the playground we used was in the far northern corner; the furthest from the back of the school. It was actually carved into the ground in order to make it level. The perimeter was defined by a four foot high cement wall that reached up to street level. Running along the top of the wall was a six foot high hurricane fence. The bases were painted right on the blacktop. Home plate was tucked into the corner where the street side of the playground, which became the right field foul line, and a property line boundary, which became the left field foul line, met at a right angle.

When you stood at home plate with bat in hand, you could see the looming backside of Linden Avenue School. The old "L" shaped burnt-orange brick building towered ominously like the Green Wall of Fenway Park. For some of the long ball hitters, the school windows were in play. They were large targets that beckoned, almost to the point of teasing the batter to swing wildly. It was the only time a kid had a shot at breaking windows, school windows no less, without punishment. And there were a few legendary ballplayers who came real close. For the rest of us, it was more about the dream.

The essence of nostalgia is an awareness that what has been will never be again.
-- Milton S. Eisenhower The Wine Is Better

Humor Is Relative thanks Cay Dickson, from the Houston Chronicle, for the compliment!

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.
-- Plato

Think you have a witty story about your family, or moment being a parent, that our readers will enjoy? Review Humor Is Relative submissions guidelines and submit your story! Who knows, we just may like it!

Sports do not build character. They reveal it.
-- Heywood Hale Broun

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Knowledge cannot make us all leaders, but it can help us decide which leader to follow.
-- Management Digest