Published: July 23, 2008 12:52 am            

Of summers past and sandlot ball ...

These are uneasy times in America.

Gas prices continue their dizzying climb, lifting prices for food, clothing and nearly everything else with them.

There is much to crease the brow and churn the stomach of just about every adult, enough to make us long for the simple, carefree summer days of our childhood.

In those days our idea of inflation was holding a balloon under a faucet, filling it with water and then breaking it over the head of a giggling sibling or friend.

Summer days were spent outdoors, playing any number of games, like tag or hide and seek. We splashed through sprinklers, climbed trees, dug holes and generally had as much fun as could be squeezed from daylight hours.

In my neighborhood, many of those days were spent playing baseball.

We had no organized teams, no structured leagues. We had no uniforms or caps, and our equipment was haphazard, at best.

A couple of kids would bring bats. If we were lucky, none would be broken. We all were experts in repairing broken bats, closing the breaks with nails or screws, then tightly wrapping the handles with black electrical tape — the sticky kind worked better, it was easier to grip.

Someone would bring a ball. New balls were treated with awe and reverence, as if they were some sort of religious icons. Most of the time we played with balls whose once shiny white leather covers were scuffed and brown, their laces fraying. Sometimes the balls with which we played were held together with tape.

Gloves were hit and miss, at best. We would have to play with what we had. Many days we would have to share mitts, with fielders simply dropping their gloves on the field at the end of an inning for one of their opponents to use. On the good days, we had one glove for every position. On the not so good ones, someone would have to play barehanded.

But we played. There was no thought of not playing. It was what we did in the summer. From right after breakfast until the last dying rays of the setting sun made it impossible to see, or until Mom summoned us home, whichever came first.

Captains would be chosen, teams would be picked. Games would begin. Nobody walked, and most of the time there were few strikeouts. Batters often would be given four, five or more strikes. Some days we played until each batter hit the ball. Those days innings often would drag on for nearly an hour.

Games were of varying length. When one team got too far ahead we would end the game and mix up the teams, trying to balance the ratio of good players to the rest of us.

There were no umpires. Fair or foul, safe or out, we would make our own calls. On occasion there would be arguments, sometimes really heated affairs, but, in time, everyone went back to the game.

Sometimes we would play with just five players or fewer on a team. Everyone got a lot of at-bats and at least had the opportunity to field a lot of grounders or flies.

But the days of sandlot pickup baseball are fading. In 2006, according to the Sporting Goods Manufacturers Association International survey, there were 16.1 million kids playing baseball in the U.S. Of those, nearly 12 million play in organized leagues.

Organized leagues for kids are great, but for those of lesser skills, sandlot baseball provides a much-needed outlet for exercise and competition. And, given reports of the declining fitness level of American children these days, kids today need all the outlets for healthy outdoor exercise they can get.



Mullin is senior writer of the News & Eagle.