"Hustle Phil! Get on it boy!" bellowed James, "Speedy" Landreth as the base runner touched third and headed for home. "Get the bat out of the way!" "Hit the dirt!" But the bat boy had failed and the bat lay guarding home like a tree. As he had gone into his slide, Phil's cleat caught the barrel of the bat which sent him head first into a waiting catcher's mitt. "You're out!, growled the umpire, followed by Phil's groan of pain and embarrassment. With his face covered in dirt, the stocky, curly haired base runner glared at the cowering bat boy as he limped to the dugout. His teammates greeted him with merciless laughter and pantomimes of his clumsy effort. Meanwhile, Speedy continued his lambaste at the chubby bat boy. "Didn't I tell you to get that bat! You need to get your head in the game or I'll get somebody else. Hustle damn it!"I assume they called him "Speedy" owing to his unhurried demeanor; for he never actually "hustled" anywhere himself. Perhaps T. Durham could put up a tell all post that could shed some light on our little league coach and further verify the sleazy side of mill hill life. Lord knows, concerning the hill, I've written about nothing but murderers and drunkards.
Summertime in the Brandon Ballpark: It was broken bats and exuberant parents. It was rain outs and base clearing doubles. It was road trips to Pelzer and late inning rallies. It was the last days of teen aged innocence and it was the end of the textile era. Before long the hum of the mill would be silenced and many of the kids would soon go to far away places to take on the responsibilities of men.
A couple of years ago I passed through Cleveland Park and I saw that the City had erected a marble wall memorializing Greenvillians killed in the wars. There I found the name Paul Charles Hamby Jr, sp4/Army. "Buddy" Hamby lived across from the Baptist Church. He was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. I scanned the black marble for another name. Gary Lynn Pace, 1lt/Army. Gary didn't live in Brandon, but his parents owned the Jewelry store in West Greenville. Most Parker High students had a school ring from Pace's. Like Buddy, Gary was killed in Vietnam. I then looked down only a row or two in search of his name; and there it was, Phillip Allen Page cpl/Army.
I remember that day in the cemetery standing on the hill across from the funeral. I watched as they laid Phil to rest; his grave not a quarter of a mile from the park where he played baseball a few short years before. I flinched as the seven guns fired their salute; and as the bugler played TAPS, I felt a sadness I had not encountered in my 11 years. The games of youth now in perspective, we walked away leaving Phil in youthful repose.
9 comments:
Larry, I finally took the time to read not only this post, but the links back to the "drunkards" post, and the link off that one to the story of Textile Baseball. Wow.
The reference to funny ground rules reminds me of our local ball diamond in Nova Scotia when I was a kid. The field was of a very unusual shape: the right field fence was short down the line, but it ran almost straight away from first base (like the old Polo Grounds in New York) to a very distant corner in right-center. Then the limit of the field (notice I didn't say "fence") ran more or less parallel to the baseline between second and third all the way to the left field corner. You knew where the field ended because the grass stopped, a downhill incline began, and at the bottom was a strip of woods.
Now, if you hit a ball that bounced into the trees in left field, it was two bases, unless you hit it to the right of the crooked birch tree sticking out of the woods in deep left-center, in which case the ball was still in play.
And I had one little league coach, in particular, who resembles the guy you call "Speedy". I think everyone knew a coach like Speedy.
ECI: The old field there at Brandon had a fence around it, but center field was at the very least 650 feet from home. Even Shoeless Joe couldn't poke one out there. Maybe one of today's steroid monsters could jack one that far, but I seriously doubt it. Like your old field, you could yank one down the line and get it over the fence pretty easy, but the distance became pretty drastic as you went to the alleys and beyond. I did once hit one to staight away center that probably went 375 feet, but the center fielder ran it down, and just to show me up, caught it behind his back. Then later (I was playing second base), he spiked me as I tried to turn a double play. The bastard.
Larry, I don't know why I remembered this story after so many years, but here's another baseball tale from the same ballfield I described above.
In the summer of 1985, right after I graduated from high school, we found ourselves one day at this field having a pickup game. There weren't enough players for two full teams, so when a few other guys we didn't know showed up and asked if they could join us, we said yes.
One of the guys was about 7'1", 350 lbs. (Maybe not that big, but it's not much of an exaggeration.) He was massive, and went by the name "Moose", which I assume was not the name his mom gave him. Moose batted left-handed and warned us in the outfield all to back the hell up, because he was about to blast the ball into outer space. I was playing right field, so I moved back a fair bit.
Well, the pitch comes in, and Moose wasn't kidding. He swung and blasted the sucker farther and higher than I ever saw anyone at that field hit a ball. Had he pulled it down the RF line, it would easily have been a home run into one of the backyards on Strath Lane. However, he didn't quite hook it enough, and he hit the ball higher than he hit it far - at least it seemed that way, a true Dave Kingman moonshot - and the ball hit the fence on the fly in right field, took one hop directly toward me (more good luck then good management), and I grabbed it cleanly.
I turned toward the infield to throw the ball in. Apparently Moose had been lolly-gagging down the first base line, admiring his batted satellite, and had bothered neither to watch where he was running, nor actually to run. "Amble" would be more the word. As I picked up the ball and turned around, Moose started to pick up the pace, but he had by this time overrun first base in foul territory and had to scramble to get back on course. "Where the hell is first base?!!!" he screamed, looking around on the ground for the bag which he had passed without noticing it. I fired the ball into second and held him to a very long single. There was a throw to the plate to try to retire a runner coming around from first, but he scored anyway. When the play was over, I laughed so hard I cried.
My brother and my friends and I have laughed about it since. All one of us has to do is shout, "Where the hell is first base??!!!!", and it all comes back.
ECI: Great story! I love the tales from the ball fields. Being that I grew up across the street from where Shoeless Joe Jackson played as a youngster, albeit 75 years before I was born, I've witnessed some funny and touching things inaand around the park...and heard plenty of others. "Where the hell is first base!!" Now that's funny!
Here's another: My brother Mike is five years older than me...and was a considerably better athelete than me back in the day. As a Pony Leaguer (one step above little league) he once pitched a no hitter. He struck out 8, walked 10 and hit three batters in 7 innings...and lost the game 3-2. We never let him live it down. He eventually settled in at third base where he hit a ton and was a veritable Brooks Robinson on defense. Those were the days of Phil Page , whom this post recalled.
10 walks, 3 hit batsmen, and a 3-2loss in a no-hitter? Larry, that tops them all! Hahahahahahaha!!!
Great story LD. Although I hailed from the 'wrong side of the tracks', we did get to see the ballgames every so often. This story is a great reminder of those days!
Thanks Reid: I thought it was appropriate to drag that one out in memory of our West Greenville brethren who gave it all.
I found your blog post by accident. I Noticed you mentioned Speedy Landreth. I had a scout leader at Brandon Troop 116 by that name. It has to be the same Flat top, cigar chewing fellow. I just wondered whatever became of him.
PS: tell my old best friend from childhood, Robby Durham, I said hello. ~Sam Lawrence
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