A few days ago, I was standing where virtually every little
leaguer wants to be in the last few weeks of August
– Howard J. Lamade Stadium.
Nestled in the hills of rural Pennsylvania, this stadium in
Williamsport comes to life each summer.
Everything in town comes to a halt and vacant motel rooms are
nowhere to be found. Lines of traffic are the norm.
ESPN hauls in its production crew, television analysts and
cameras to this sleepy town to watch youngsters from all over the
world play baseball.
Here I stood, for where many summers past they’ve played the
Little League World Series. Between the foul lines, lasting
memories were made and dreams fulfilled. Outside the lines,
friendships were formed, kids were just kids and cultures crossed
paths.
But when I was there, there were no bright lights, no hordes of
cheering fans, no laughter from kids and no banners proclaiming
”
our town is the best.
”
No, as I gazed around, there was only the newly cut, plush
grass, and the sound of distant voices.
A few days ago, I was standing where virtually every little leaguer wants to be in the last few weeks of August – Howard J. Lamade Stadium.
Nestled in the hills of rural Pennsylvania, this stadium in Williamsport comes to life each summer.
Everything in town comes to a halt and vacant motel rooms are nowhere to be found. Lines of traffic are the norm.
ESPN hauls in its production crew, television analysts and cameras to this sleepy town to watch youngsters from all over the world play baseball.
Here I stood, for where many summers past they’ve played the Little League World Series. Between the foul lines, lasting memories were made and dreams fulfilled. Outside the lines, friendships were formed, kids were just kids and cultures crossed paths.
But when I was there, there were no bright lights, no hordes of cheering fans, no laughter from kids and no banners proclaiming “our town is the best.” No, as I gazed around, there was only the newly cut, plush grass, and the sound of distant voices.
For a moment, like anyone would do, I couldn’t help but think of my days in Little League.
Like my friend remarked, on our drive from Philadelphia, everyone our age played Little League. There weren’t travel teams, premier teams or tournaments in Cooperstown. There was just Little League. And a dream of Williamsport.
It’s a dream every kid envisions when he or she dons a uniform for the first time. The pinnacle is reached when a team receives an invitation, while many are heartbroken and fail to live the experience.
Those days, some 40 years ago, crept into my memory about my quest to ascend to stardom on the biggest stage of all. Our team, from district 25 in Santa Monica, California, won the district title in four straight games.
Our dream ended on the very first day of sectionals. Back in those ancient times, one loss eliminated you, unlike the double-elimination process of today. We never got that second chance. We just went to the local pizza joint and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of summer.
It’s funny, but in a few moments of walking around this youth baseball shrine, I could recollect the four years of joy, anguish and jubilation that marked my Little League career among the palm trees and sea breezes.
During those years, my teams were a combined form of Bad News Bears and Sandlot look-a-likes, all representing our sponsor and team name, the Elks. We wore green and gray flannel uniforms and swung wood bats.
One of our players, our catcher, became quite famous outside of baseball. Yeah, famed Dogtown skateboarder Tony Alva, depicted in many movies, commercials and magazines, was one of my teammates. His dad coached the team, and as American Idol judge Simon Cowell would say, we were bloody awful.
Alva was behind the plate the day I gave up two grand slams, to the same hitter no less. How we won 9-8, I’ll never know. It was days like those that maybe I should have taken up skateboarding. Then again, the thought of smashing my head in an empty swimming pool shaped like a half pipe was not what I wanted. But I would have been cool, though.
My mother getting kicked off the premises for yelling at an umpire was priceless and downright embarrassing. I never lived that one down among my circle of friends and if I could have crawled behind second base and hid, I would have.
While the rest of my team on the field hid their faces with their gloves and laughed, I just told myself I didn’t want to go home that day and running away seemed like a better idea.
I never hit a home run, but gave up many. I did, however, pitch a no-hitter when I was 12 for our only win of the first half of the season. I guess it was an omen of things to come for me. Pitching was my forte. The designated-hitter rule was made especially for me.
“Rich, Rich,” yelled my friend.
Oh, I remembered, I was here on business and it was time to attend the meeting. But, hey, when you’re standing where thousands of kids have stood before and realized their dreams, you’re allowed, especially as a parent, to let your mind wander of what could have been.
It took me four decades to get to where I was standing, and even though I wasn’t a player, it gave me a few precious moments to recall my youth.
I hope every kid has a dream to live the thrill of a lifetime by playing here. It’s something they’ll never forget.
