This excerpt came from a book project my brother undertook at the age of 68 with the assistance of Storyworth, an app that provides weekly prompts for writing down life’s memories, lessons and reflections. The end result is a book of stories that are usually shared around a kitchen table, at family gatherings or special moments, preserved not just for that moment but for the next generation. See Storyworth.com, “helping to honor a life fully lived while there is still time to tell it.” — Linda Gross
Houston was awarded an expansion baseball franchise in 1960 and played their first game in 1962. In a city-wide naming contest, the “Colt .45s” was the winner. I was 8 years old and was pretty knowledgeable about the game from playing pick-up games in the neighborhood. Oh, I suppose I didn’t grasp many of the nuances, like bunting to advance one of your teammates; I always swing for the fences. And yeah, I usually struck out, but it was a hugely satisfying crack of the bat when I did occasionally get a hit.
Houston didn’t have a professional stadium at the time. Judge Hofheinz and the Houston Sports Authority had approved the construction of the first domed, air-conditioned stadium, but it wouldn’t be completed until 1964 or 5. So, we played the first season at Rice (University) Stadium, an open-air, hot, not very big monolith just off South Main. By the second season, we`built a temporary open-air stadium to play in until the Astrodome was finished, called Colt Stadium. So began a long Houston professional sports tradition of losing miserably. For the first three years, we were near the bottom of the rankings every year.
But at 8 years old, I didn’t care. What I cared about was “The Season.”
The season began officially in April, but for the kids, in the neighborhoods, it had started in late February. That marked the end of winter and a time when we got our baseball gloves down from the top shelf in the closet and began throwing baseballs into the “pocket” of the mitt to loosen them up. I had a tin of saddle soap, and every spring I’d take my glove, lather it up, clean it off, and knead it until it was supple.
We played baseball at the neighborhood diamond when we could get enough kids. We figured out a way to field a team with as few as six — pitcher, catcher, 1st and 3rd basemen, then two guys to play outfield. With those few players, almost any hit was guaranteed to get on base and maybe even a ‘Homer.”
When we couldn’t get enough kids, we’d play catch. We'd stand thirty feet apart and mindlessly throw baseballs back and forth, the entire time practicing our patter, “Hey Batter … Batter, Swing … Batter, Batter.”
Baseball talk among us guys during Spring Training was almost exclusively about how the Colts would improve later in the season. You could track the season’s progress by how many times the phrase “next year…” could be heard. By mid season, everyone was talking about making a miracle off-season trade that would transform the team.
Talk of the Colt .45s making the playoffs really was never more than a pipe dream, but we certainly had opinions about who might go. The Mets were a perennial favorite just because they were the Mets, Home of Babe Ruth.* The Red Sox were always a contender in our minds because, well, they were the Red Sox and the former home of Babe Ruth.
(*This sentence is historically inaccurate, it turns out, but seemed true to an 8-year-old.)
Dad came home from work one day and took me aside. He sat across from me at the kitchen table, said he had two tickets to the baseball game next Saturday, and asked if I would like to go.
Just me’n him, no girls.
Holy Cow, is the Pope Catholic?
We went to a daytime game, and it was hot. We’d left early so we wouldn’t miss anything, and I brought my baseball glove in case I got a chance to catch a foul ball.
I remember we walked a long way from the parking lot to the stadium, but once inside, it was cooler. The mezzanine was shaded and had a nice breeze, and we milled around for a bit, trying to cool off after the walk from the car. A vendor was selling Colt .45 pennants on a wooden dowel, and Dad bought me one. Dad kept the tickets in his hand as we walked around the mezzanine, looking for our aisle and seat numbers. Once seated, we were high enough in the stands to see the whole place. We were also high enough that you couldn’t really make out who was on base or making any one play, but I didn’t care. We were at the ballpark!
I was never happier. Not wanting to miss anything, I merely stood in front of the seat I’d been assigned and only sat when a grown-up told me to, and then not for long. The problem was that every time there was a big play, all the adults would stand, and I wasn’t tall enough to see over them, so like the smaller dog in a pack, I just howled with them.
The Colt .45s miraculously won that game. I left that afternoon believing I had just seen the beginning of a turnaround for “Our Team,” but I was wrong. We went on to lose the next nine in a row and ended up near the bottom of the rankings again. The end of the season was a flurry of playoff games leading to the World Series. The best of the American League versus The Best of the National League in a best-of-seven-game series. To the advertiser and the network that broadcast the game, it didn’t matter who won as long as the series went the full seven games. They were the only ones to whom it didn’t matter. Everyone else had favorites. If your team was in the playoffs, you rooted for the team playing against the team that defeated you.
We never had a World Series Party like you might celebrate a Super Bowl Party. Good or bad, it seemed everyone had a personal relationship with baseball, to be celebrated or mourned, according to your own beliefs. I remember Dad watching the game on our 13-inch black and white TV under a cloud of Camel cigarette smoke, just shaking his head. He finally stood up, walked over, turned the TV off, and said, “ Well, That’s it. … Next …” and walked away.
I believe that’s the lesson of baseball. We learn hope, humility and the dream of new beginnings. No matter how far down the rankings you stand today, there is hope for the game tomorrow, and if you are at the top of the heap, it reminds us we are only one bad inning away from losing. And finally, regardless of your station in life or rankings in sports, your slate will be wiped clean at the end of the year, and next year will be a new beginning.
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