The sounds of summer have arrived. No, I don't mean chirping birds, belly-busting splashes in the old swimming hole or the neighbor's lawn mower whirring.
I'm talking about sounds that resonate on school grounds and vacant lots and at fancy stadiums, sounds that are unique to the all-American sport -- baseball has arrived.
And just to be non-selective and politically correct, similar sounds emanate from softball fields.
There's something about those special sounds that stir memories -- like a clenched fist popping the pocket of a fielder's mitt. Or infield chatter, "Come on, babe; come on, boy," to help the pitcher hit the strike zone. Or, the crack of a bat as it connects with the ball sending it out, out, out. Heads turn. Parents hold their breath. Drats. It's a foul ball. And then there are those sounds from the stands directed toward the ump who is only doing his job the best he can.
Yep, all those sounds are here, or soon will be, at high school games, in back yards, at the Naturals' park. And, yes, sometimes where tee-ballers and pee wees are engrossed in smacking that ball over a fielder's head. And there are other sounds and memories that many, most of you, can recall from those baseball days past.
When I was a kid I never really played much baseball. I never enjoyed seeing a hard fast ball coming toward me at a hundred miles an hour. I know, I stretch it. But 25 miles per hour from a wild pitcher can be unnerving.
Softball was my specialty. When I was a kid, boys' softball was usually slow pitch. My speed. I could better handle those arched lobs, not like the 75 mile-per-hour missiles girls toss at each other today.
I was an almost 100-percent hitter. Make that a 100 percent striker-outer. I was that 97 pound kid who tried and tried but somehow hitting a homer was never in the books. I didn't have the eye for that dirt-stained white sphere headed toward my head. I'd swing at almost anything and everything. Hence, my strike-out ratio was pretty high. And when I did connect, it was usually a dribbling grounder toward the shortstop or third baseman. Make that the pitcher's mound. My legs would churn. But somehow the ball nearly always beat me to first base.
It really wasn't that bad. I enjoyed it as much as if I were a Stan Musial or an Enos Slaughter or a Ralph Kiner -- or a Gene Stephens.
Which brings me to the real reason for this 'cuff. It's to call attention to a Hiwasse boy who made his mark in the majors. A boy who graduated from Gravette High School and who almost immediately was signed by the Boston Red Sox. A boy who became a friend of Mickey Mantle. A young man who set a major league record on June 18, 1953: Three hits in one inning. That hadn't been done in 70 years -- 1883 -- and that one wouldn't be tied until 50 years later in 2003.
Some of you may remember Gene. I wasn't privileged to know him since he graduated in 1951. I've read about him and have heard Bob Kelley, one of his biggest boosters, talk about the career of the Hiwasse Hitter.
He played in the shadow of one of the greatest hitters of all time, Ted Williams. Hence his playing time was very limited. But he set a record Williams never achieved -- one for the books: Three hits in one inning against the Detroit Tigers.
Dodie Evans is editor emeritus of the Westside Eagle Observer. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected]. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 04/09/2014