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Somebody emailed this story about small town baseball teams from 1921 to me. Very funny ending!
The Hay Rake
Summer 1921
The Home Team
The west wind comes soft and summery over Mickle Hill; the lush skunk cabbage in the creek bottoms is two feet high. The crows have mated and are already hatching out their blue-eyed, wide mouthed babies in the tall pines on the hillside, and country boys with leeky breaths bear witness that the all-powerful wild leek is flourishing once again in its haunts in boggy Funky Hollow.
In short, Sweet Summer is really here, or at any rate most of her baggage has arrived, and at this livening season a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of ....bats and balls and catcher's gloves and the idea of "getting up a ball team."
In country towns, we have only real ball teams and only genuine American Baseball. Here the sport is untouched by commercialism. We have no graft, no scandals, no ticket scalpers, no fixed games -- and no policemen to stop us when we wish to beat up the umpire. Here the games are not won by the team which can afford the most expensive players. What if our players are not all Cobbs or Collins. What if their uniforms don't always fit and stockings fail to match. The boys play the game for all it's worth.
When we have a ball game in the village on a Saturday afternoon, it is a great occasion. The racy, sportive atmosphere of the game pervades the valley. The dogs bark and cats scurry for places of safety under the porches.
Our ball ground is a pasture lot, with enough woodchuck holes and hillocks to provide good sporting hazards for the sprinting outfielder who is straining to catch a soaring fly. The fences are lined with buggies and, of late years, flocks of Fords arrive bringing spectators to the game. Our grandstand is a convenient bank in the near right field. The pretty girls hitch up their skirts and sit down on the cool, tickly grass. The small boys crowd close along the base lines where in all likelihood they will get a speedy foul tip bounced off their heads.
The farmers, out for an afternoon's sport and grown reckless and devilish, cast caution to the winds and blow as much as a quarter for peanuts. Industrious small boys, who will one day be millionaires, dispense homemade lemonade and, perchance, ice cream. Oh, we make a gala day of it when we have a big ball game in the village.
Give me the country ball game in preference to the city's cut and dried sport every time. When the playing is too smooth and "scientific" you make a machine of it. There are no pleasant surprises like the one we had when the Union City All Stars played Garland.
The Union City players came all togged out in brand new, white Sears & Roebuck uniforms -- $39.60 for the set of nine suits and one extra. They were a lovely sight with their red stockings and caps. The Garland girls quite went daffy over 'em. The game was in full swing when one of their players tried to stretch out a two-bagger into a three base hit. He was trying to keep one eye on the ball and another on third base, which was a dirty brown sack filled with sawdust. He was coming hell bent for election and undertook to make a headlong slide. Our base lines are not marked and he was about ten feet out of line. He slid for what he thought was third base, but it wasn’t third base. It was a base deception.
A cow, which nightly pastured amongst the daisies in the ball field, had left more than her footprints on the sod. The thing that looked to the speeding runner like third base was broad and high. Its outside was crusted over and dry -- but the inside was soft and juicy, -- the consistency of a fresh cream puff. The ball was right back of him and the runner made a grandstand slide. He went slam bang into it. It was very sad. His pretty, white suit was a sight. He looked like an angel food cake with chocolate icing. He lost his nerve, was completely cowed, as it were, and quit the game. As luck would have it, he was Union City's best man. Garland, which had been behind, now won out. The scorekeeper credited the cow with an assist.
Many things may influence the outcome of a ball game. Here you get the grand American game as it was intended, where the only crown is not the dollar, but the hard won laurel wreath of fame.
The Hay Rake
Summer 1921
The Home Team
The west wind comes soft and summery over Mickle Hill; the lush skunk cabbage in the creek bottoms is two feet high. The crows have mated and are already hatching out their blue-eyed, wide mouthed babies in the tall pines on the hillside, and country boys with leeky breaths bear witness that the all-powerful wild leek is flourishing once again in its haunts in boggy Funky Hollow.
In short, Sweet Summer is really here, or at any rate most of her baggage has arrived, and at this livening season a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of ....bats and balls and catcher's gloves and the idea of "getting up a ball team."
In country towns, we have only real ball teams and only genuine American Baseball. Here the sport is untouched by commercialism. We have no graft, no scandals, no ticket scalpers, no fixed games -- and no policemen to stop us when we wish to beat up the umpire. Here the games are not won by the team which can afford the most expensive players. What if our players are not all Cobbs or Collins. What if their uniforms don't always fit and stockings fail to match. The boys play the game for all it's worth.
When we have a ball game in the village on a Saturday afternoon, it is a great occasion. The racy, sportive atmosphere of the game pervades the valley. The dogs bark and cats scurry for places of safety under the porches.
Our ball ground is a pasture lot, with enough woodchuck holes and hillocks to provide good sporting hazards for the sprinting outfielder who is straining to catch a soaring fly. The fences are lined with buggies and, of late years, flocks of Fords arrive bringing spectators to the game. Our grandstand is a convenient bank in the near right field. The pretty girls hitch up their skirts and sit down on the cool, tickly grass. The small boys crowd close along the base lines where in all likelihood they will get a speedy foul tip bounced off their heads.
The farmers, out for an afternoon's sport and grown reckless and devilish, cast caution to the winds and blow as much as a quarter for peanuts. Industrious small boys, who will one day be millionaires, dispense homemade lemonade and, perchance, ice cream. Oh, we make a gala day of it when we have a big ball game in the village.
Give me the country ball game in preference to the city's cut and dried sport every time. When the playing is too smooth and "scientific" you make a machine of it. There are no pleasant surprises like the one we had when the Union City All Stars played Garland.
The Union City players came all togged out in brand new, white Sears & Roebuck uniforms -- $39.60 for the set of nine suits and one extra. They were a lovely sight with their red stockings and caps. The Garland girls quite went daffy over 'em. The game was in full swing when one of their players tried to stretch out a two-bagger into a three base hit. He was trying to keep one eye on the ball and another on third base, which was a dirty brown sack filled with sawdust. He was coming hell bent for election and undertook to make a headlong slide. Our base lines are not marked and he was about ten feet out of line. He slid for what he thought was third base, but it wasn’t third base. It was a base deception.
A cow, which nightly pastured amongst the daisies in the ball field, had left more than her footprints on the sod. The thing that looked to the speeding runner like third base was broad and high. Its outside was crusted over and dry -- but the inside was soft and juicy, -- the consistency of a fresh cream puff. The ball was right back of him and the runner made a grandstand slide. He went slam bang into it. It was very sad. His pretty, white suit was a sight. He looked like an angel food cake with chocolate icing. He lost his nerve, was completely cowed, as it were, and quit the game. As luck would have it, he was Union City's best man. Garland, which had been behind, now won out. The scorekeeper credited the cow with an assist.
Many things may influence the outcome of a ball game. Here you get the grand American game as it was intended, where the only crown is not the dollar, but the hard won laurel wreath of fame.
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