We were there to witness history
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- August 18, 2018
- 1624
There is simply no way in the world Dad knew. It’s just impossible. And yet there we were — the five of us — seated in the third-base stands of Chicago’s Wrigley Field watching history unfold.
Then again, it was the summer of 1969, and it seemed that anything — from the sublime to the salacious, from the cosmic to the criminal — was possible.
It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, and not to sound too dramatic, the world was changing.
And somehow, some way, after the moon landing and before Woodstock, sandwiched between Chappaquiddick and the Manson murders, our little family found itself in the Windy City in a ballpark built before our parents were born. Baseball’s like that.
The love of the game is most often passed down from fathers to sons, but in our case Mom and my sister also were part of the tradition. Ours was a home with the Indians on the radio, a Wiffle ball field in the back yard and always, always, always a uniform ready for the washer.
That summer I was 14 years old. Unlike most of my friends, I had never, ever, ever been kissed, but that would happen soon enough.
But like them, I mowed neighborhood lawns for a few dollars just so I could walk down to Main Street on Saturday mornings to invest in my favorite 45 and a pack or two of baseball cards.
I was standing on one of life’s great divides, straddling the old and the new, knowing what was happening that summer would be important.
In September I’d join the town’s public school system after having been educated for eight years in the parochial manner. I wasn’t sure what exactly I’d experience, but I understood it would be, well, different.
I knew some of those guys — though none of the girls — from having played Little League and then Pony League.
It wasn’t about religion. It was about baseball.
These days it seems sad fewer and fewer young people can be bothered to play a game that, to me anyway, matters the most. It was never my destiny to be a father, but if it turned out differently, I’m pretty sure my kids would have grown weary of hearing me quote one of my favorite lines from my favorite baseball film. I refer, of course, to “Bull Durham.”
“Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes … it rains.”
There’s a lot of life wisdom in that handful of words.
Back in the Summer of ’69, I found myself playing third base for a Pony League team that hardly ever lost. It was a magical time, one that glows ever brighter as my summers come and go, ebb and flow. I won’t bore you with a lot of stats, except this one. We lost our first game. And we lost our last game. In between we won 18 in a row.
Of course we were league champions, and of course we had a lot of fun, but you should understand that in my little town Pony League was the Big Time.
They did it right with a PA announcer and the national anthem played before every game as the teams stood on the baselines. There were signs, sponsored by local businesses, hanging on the outfield fence, including one that promised a free chicken dinner to the team if a guy hit a home run over it.
There were real dugouts and lights for night games. There were bleachers all around with pretty girls standing in clusters in their shorts and T-shirts, sometimes even watching us.
There were umpires who wore sharp blue shirts, Dads who served as groundskeepers and a concession stand where Mom used to volunteer, serving up hot dogs and popcorn and cold bottles of pop because, as she said, “I get so nervous when you’re playing.”
That summer, though, she needn’t have worried so much. The team I was playing on was just stacked, loaded with talent, and she’d have had fun watching me nearly make the All-Star squad.
When you’re 14 years old and win 18 games in a row, you think your life’s pretty cool and that nothing can possibly be better. And then you’re in Wrigley Field and you’re watching a no-hitter.
That summer the Cubs — always known as the Lovable Losers — had somehow, some way, become the hottest team in baseball. They dominated their division and appeared headed for the World Series, something that hadn’t happened since Lincoln was in office.
I exaggerate, but you get the idea. No one saw it coming.
But my father, who grew up in South Bend and used to ride the South Shore to take in games, wanted to make sure the first time any of his kids saw Chicago it would include a baseball game. So way back in the depths of a snowy January as he planned our summer vacation, he circled Aug. 19 and sent away for tickets.
Flash forward six months and there we are, standing and screaming as Ken Holtzman, a lefty who was at his best that afternoon, kept retiring the Atlanta Braves including Henry Aaron, who in years to come would break Babe Ruth’s all-time home run record.
Six outs to go … five, four, three, two … and then it’s over and our little family from a small town in Ohio is joining a joyful celebration with the most long-suffering fans in the game.
How did Dad know to make sure we were there to witness history? Well, some things in baseball, like the infield fly rule, simply defy explanation, which makes them all the more wonderful.
Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to share the fun on his Facebook page.