The ballfields were several miles from our house, located at the farthest possible southwest portion of the lake. We lived at the farthest northeast portion. As the crow flies, that distance could easily be cut in half, but we didn't have wings so that was a moot point. We rowed the boat a few times to practice, but even that was quite a chore for seven- and eight-year-olds. The temptation to go fishing while enroute was also difficult to resist so we pedaled ourselves most of the time.
The roads were hilly, up and down, twisting and curving, sometimes smooth as silk, sometimes rough as a cob. Gaining speed on a long descent to help the strain of the next steep climb was crucial as long there wasn't any bend in the road with loose sand or gravel. "Wiping Out," as it was called, is a recipe for horrendous wounds to the knees, elbows or shoulders. And the pain from the treatment of the accident usually a topical antiseptic that stung and burned beyond description, followed by a heavy layer of yellow Sulphur powder, punctuated the need to be cautious. It was also not good for the bicycles: bending the handle bars, foot pedals or throwing a chain. Sympathy from a parent about mechanical malfunctions was non-existent. As long as there wasn't blood dripping from your ears or deep lacerations around the skull, you were told "You're fine," and then released back into the wild.
Everyone's gloves were inherited oversized monstrosities, well-worn with loose leather laces hanging from various key structural connections. The holes that appeared to be applicable for rethreading the twisted strips were not. Any attempt to persuade the dried string through a nearby opening with a nail or other sharp pointed object could also cause injury, so the desire to repair and improve the mitt was quickly abandoned.
The sporting goods department at the local K-Mart store created dreamlike fantasizes of new equipment and officially labeled items from Major League Baseball; only a couple of kids whose fathers were pilots for TWA even dared to ask for such things. With just a day or two remaining before our first game, we received our uniforms. Oh what a glorious afternoon that was. The pride we all felt; the comradery, the unity, and the instant creation of a bond and being on a team.
A couple of brown grocery sacks had been sitting on the single bench bleacher behind the backstop. We were told to ignore them while we practiced; the instructions were quickly forgotten. A dozen little boys with visions of grandeur, kicking the dirt, hands throbbing after banging the adult sized Louisville slugger bats against the metal T-ball post, all we wanted is what was inside those sacks.
"Stop!" the coach bellowed. "Get a drink and go sit under the tree." Twenty-four feet scrambled to the green garden hose, connected to the red handled spigot that protruded from the ground, gulping air and water in equal amounts. Coach didn't mince words; didn't have to before political correctness was invented. "Sit down and keep your mouths shut. I'll call you when it's your turn." We crowded together under the only shade available, an ugly oddly-shaped, thinly-canopied vertical knot of wood and leaves. As each name was called, we ran to Coach's nylon webbed aluminum framed chair. He reached into the sacks, one containing blue baseball caps with a 'B' monogram and the other containing white T-shirts. The caps were one size fits all, either they fit or they didn't. With the T-shirts, he was a bit more selective. Mumbling to himself as he held them up against our front side, he'd say "that'll work" before laying it flat on the ground. A silhouette stencil was then placed on top the T-shirt; a can of black spray paint finalized the outfit we were the BULLDOGS! It was the coach's choice. The uniforms were perfect regardless of the overspray on every edge. We had the habit of barking from the dugout toward the opposing team. The coach was reluctant to suppress the enthusiasm that he had created with his decision of a mascot. Live and learn.
The following year we became the GOLDFISH! Fun killer.
