Teach
12-25-2013, 07:22 PM
I hardly felt it. It was like a love-tap. There was no bruise. No marks. Just frustration. Wounded pride.
It was Saturday, April 11, 1953. My two fifth-grade friends, Tony and “Fitzie,” and I headed into Boston’s Fenway Park to catch what we thought would be our last chance to see the Braves play the Red Sox. That previous fall, the former Boston Braves had left Beantown to begin play in Milwaukee.
That day, the Braves were in town to take part in a “Jimmy Fund” game. We wanted to see all our favorite Braves’ players: Warren Spahn, Johnny Logan, Sibby Sisti, Eddie Matthews, and a host of others.
I recall it was a sunny, yet cool day. The three of us had, per usual, arrived at the ballpark, early. Anytime we went to Fenway, we made it a habit of getting there early enough to take in both fielding and batting practice.
My friends and I bought bleacher seats. In the early 1950s, bleacher seats were less than one dollar. Unlike today’s bleacher seats, in those days seating was unreserved; it was first-come, first-served. As we were usually among the first arrivals, we could count on sitting just about anywhere we wanted. Our favorite spot was near “the bottom” of the bleachers, right behind the Red Sox bullpen.
I recall that during batting practice that day both Braves and Red Sox batters had hit several balls into the bleachers. Whenever a ball landed in the bleachers, there was a mad scramble to corral the baseball. It was noy unlike seeing a bunch of basketball players diving to the floor for a loose ball. The person who finally emerged with the baseball might have gotten a souvenir, but they may well have had a bruise or two to show for it. I remember on that April day both Tony and “Fitzie” each got one ball. I thought to myself, “Now, it’s my turn.” Yet batting practice was coming to an end. I was lamenting the fact that both of my friends had souvenirs; yet I was coming up empty.
I remember that just as batting practice came to an end I was standing about four or five rows up from the lower level of the bleachers. I recall at the time that I was simply looking around at the ballpark. When suddenly ---out of nowhere — I was struck by a baseball!
At that moment, I remember two things. First, I recall that my friend Tony was standing at the bottom of the bleachers right next to the bullpen area. The ball that had struck me had bounded down the stairs and right into Tony’s hands. The second thing I remember was the concerned look on the faces of two Braves’ players (the two were standing in the vicinity of where the ball had been thrown). Apparently they were lobbing balls into the bullpen; however, whomever had thrown the baseball had overshot his mark.
Well, the thrown ball had struck me in the stomach. I was startled, but I didn’t feel any pain. I didn’t need medical attention. I wasn’t injured. The only thing I was thankful for was the fact that the ball hadn’t struck me a few inches lower or, for that matter, a foot or so higher. Besides my good luck, I had another thing working for me: my mother. When I was young, my Mom would always overdress me. I remember that day at Fenway I had on a four layers of clothing: an undershirt, a shirt, a sweater and a jacket. I probably looked like a bundled-up penguin.
Seconds later, the incident was over. I recall that my friend Tony was gloating over getting his second souvenir baseball. I also remember that he looked like Disney’s version of the Cheshire Cat in “Alice and Wonderland.” For my part, all I had to show for being hit by the baseball was the feeling of frustration. I thought, “Why hadn’t I been more alert?” I also recall that for the next several minutes Tony was razzing me about my misfortune. I remember him chuckling and then saying to “Fitzie,” “I get a baseball, and Walter gets it "right in the labonza!”
As a follow up, did you ever have a similar experience? Where you ever injured either playing or watching a sport?
It was Saturday, April 11, 1953. My two fifth-grade friends, Tony and “Fitzie,” and I headed into Boston’s Fenway Park to catch what we thought would be our last chance to see the Braves play the Red Sox. That previous fall, the former Boston Braves had left Beantown to begin play in Milwaukee.
That day, the Braves were in town to take part in a “Jimmy Fund” game. We wanted to see all our favorite Braves’ players: Warren Spahn, Johnny Logan, Sibby Sisti, Eddie Matthews, and a host of others.
I recall it was a sunny, yet cool day. The three of us had, per usual, arrived at the ballpark, early. Anytime we went to Fenway, we made it a habit of getting there early enough to take in both fielding and batting practice.
My friends and I bought bleacher seats. In the early 1950s, bleacher seats were less than one dollar. Unlike today’s bleacher seats, in those days seating was unreserved; it was first-come, first-served. As we were usually among the first arrivals, we could count on sitting just about anywhere we wanted. Our favorite spot was near “the bottom” of the bleachers, right behind the Red Sox bullpen.
I recall that during batting practice that day both Braves and Red Sox batters had hit several balls into the bleachers. Whenever a ball landed in the bleachers, there was a mad scramble to corral the baseball. It was noy unlike seeing a bunch of basketball players diving to the floor for a loose ball. The person who finally emerged with the baseball might have gotten a souvenir, but they may well have had a bruise or two to show for it. I remember on that April day both Tony and “Fitzie” each got one ball. I thought to myself, “Now, it’s my turn.” Yet batting practice was coming to an end. I was lamenting the fact that both of my friends had souvenirs; yet I was coming up empty.
I remember that just as batting practice came to an end I was standing about four or five rows up from the lower level of the bleachers. I recall at the time that I was simply looking around at the ballpark. When suddenly ---out of nowhere — I was struck by a baseball!
At that moment, I remember two things. First, I recall that my friend Tony was standing at the bottom of the bleachers right next to the bullpen area. The ball that had struck me had bounded down the stairs and right into Tony’s hands. The second thing I remember was the concerned look on the faces of two Braves’ players (the two were standing in the vicinity of where the ball had been thrown). Apparently they were lobbing balls into the bullpen; however, whomever had thrown the baseball had overshot his mark.
Well, the thrown ball had struck me in the stomach. I was startled, but I didn’t feel any pain. I didn’t need medical attention. I wasn’t injured. The only thing I was thankful for was the fact that the ball hadn’t struck me a few inches lower or, for that matter, a foot or so higher. Besides my good luck, I had another thing working for me: my mother. When I was young, my Mom would always overdress me. I remember that day at Fenway I had on a four layers of clothing: an undershirt, a shirt, a sweater and a jacket. I probably looked like a bundled-up penguin.
Seconds later, the incident was over. I recall that my friend Tony was gloating over getting his second souvenir baseball. I also remember that he looked like Disney’s version of the Cheshire Cat in “Alice and Wonderland.” For my part, all I had to show for being hit by the baseball was the feeling of frustration. I thought, “Why hadn’t I been more alert?” I also recall that for the next several minutes Tony was razzing me about my misfortune. I remember him chuckling and then saying to “Fitzie,” “I get a baseball, and Walter gets it "right in the labonza!”
As a follow up, did you ever have a similar experience? Where you ever injured either playing or watching a sport?