.... 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, Part Two, and Part Three of Band Box Baseball

"Well look who's up? If it isn't the incorrigible Mr. Oates."

"Hey Mr. Fitz, you better take your false teeth out. I don't want to mess up that pretty smile." The spunky Oatey-ka-Boatey, a muscled squat, whose nose proudly displayed what can happen when used to catch a pepper shaker rifled by an irate older brother at dinner, was always good for a clever one-liner. A chorus of "oohs" rang out from fielders and batters alike.

"Hey Mr. Fitz, don't let him get away with that! Brush 'em back!" screamed Chucky, standing in deep right, demonstrating he knew the subtleties of the game. Mr. Fitz smiled and pitched away.

BAM!

Oatey cracked a deep one over the tossed gloves of the five left fielders. The race was on. The bare pawed hounds chased the ball, disappearing deep into the hedges. A few seconds later the ball flew out of the bush like a roused quail. Oatey was already rounding second on his way into third. Some kid ran down the wayward ball and whipped it, rolling to the ground from the effort--distance of toss trumping aim. The ball zoomed over the outreached gloves of three first base men and smashed into the fence. Oatey raced home, clearing the bases, and met dad who executed his patented fake tag maneuver. Chucky, who started out in another zip code, somehow found his way to field the ball at first base. He winged it home about ten seconds too late to dad who was gloveless. He snagged it before it smacked an oblivious kid taking practice swings in the batter's box. The play was finally over. Gloves were thrown to the ground in disgust. Another big batter had just had his way. Another kid's life was spared by dad's lightning quick reflexes. Such was the chaotic action that Band Box Baseball was made of when the sluggers batted.

Other than the Big Hitter, the Bat Thrower was the other type that raised the alert from yellow to orange. But this was usually taken care of by moving the line of upcoming batters as far away as possible and asking them to curl up in balls like we had learned in the event of a nuclear attack, something we had become quite comfortable with.

The Bat Carriers were kind of interesting in that they insisted on taking the bat with them down to first base before dropping it; some actually carrying the bat completely around the bases.

The style of batter that entertained the crowd while giving fielders a chance to practice their throwing skills, was the power runner. Doug was such a player. It didn't matter where Doug hit the ball. He was determined to run the bases until one of two things occurred: he was either tagged unconscious or ran out of bases. He was even known to pass one or two other runners in the process, sending the play into complete pandemonium.

Last but never least was the crowd favorite. There was always a kid on each team who was powerless; completely incapable of hitting a pitch without assistance. Usually dad would help the kid with his swing by standing behind him, reaching around, placing the batter's small hands in the proper grip and enveloping them with his own hands. Mr. Fitz would lay one in the strike zone. Dad would direct the bat to hit the ball back to Mr. Fitz and the choreography began.

Mr. Fitz knocks it to the ground barehanded. Dad reminds the kid to run to first base, sometimes chasing him down the third base line to do so. The kid, grinning from one jumbo ear to the other, runs to first base, sometimes stopping at the pitcher's spot by mistake. Mr. Fitz bobbles the ball while fielders scream and carry on like wild banshees. The kid, churning his tiny short stride with head down, eventually arrives at first. Just as he steps on the base, Mr. Fitz launches the ball over the heads of the sea of first basemen who are screaming, "ME! ME! ME!" The kid takes off to second base, one hand holding his hat and one hand holding his pants. The kid reaches second, ducking instinctively to reach his target as he weaves in and out of seven second basemen. The ball is nowhere in sight. It has already been thrown into a yard. Four fielders are scaling the six foot high hurricane fence in hot pursuit; personal injury insurance the furthest thing from anyone's thoughts. Our little hero is urged by two dozen berserk teammates to run to third. He holds his hat, grabs his pants again, takes a deep breath and starts the sprint, knock-kneed legs flailing. The chasers grab the ball and hurl it into center field, caroming off the school wall; the law of distance versus aim applying once more. Our runner is waved into home as he steps on third base. He rests a moment for a little underwear adjustment and nose cleaning before he bolts for home; his face lit with determination. After four relay tosses, Rye Bread has it at short-stop and wings it home. Dad bobbles the catch. The kid jumps with both feet smacking down on home plate. Dad makes the tag too late. Mr. Fitz declares, "SAFE!" Bedlam breaks out. There are town parades the next day.

That was Band Box Baseball.

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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-- Management Digest