It’s that time of year again; time for the “Boys of Summer.” That’s what they called it back when I was a kid in 1954. It was the last year I was eligible to play Little League. Eleven years old and soon to be too old to qualify. Three of us from the neighborhood “gang” decided to try out. And, to our surprise, made the team: Woody Walls, Waren Brooks and myself. The biggest thrill was getting the uniform making us official players on the Elk’s Little League team. We were a scraggly bunch of South Side, Binghamton kids. We grew up playing ball at the “Flats,” a wide-open playing field between Vestal Avenue and the Susquehanna River, adjacent to the temporary veteran’s housing complex. It’s now part of the MacArthur Elementary school grounds. There is one veteran’s house still standing, now used as the bath house for the city pool. But back then, it was home for my cousins: Rosemary, Rita and Jerry Collins. Billy and Pat Collins came into my world later on.
Little League started in June when school let out. Games were played in the afternoon on weekdays. It was a kid’s pastime, of little interest to parents for the most part. The coaches were usually the only adults at a game, except when we played the really good teams. Sertoma, for example, led by Doug Johnson. He not only could blast the ball out of the park, he was the most feared pitcher in the league. Little League was a wonderful pastime. It profitably occupied us for an entire summer, but someone came along when I wasn’t looking and changed it. And, it bugs me a little.
First, they changed the timeframe. It’s no longer a summer pastime. The season kicks off in May, sometimes with traces of snow clinging to the grass in the outfield. The games are played in the evening or on the weekend, to accommodate parents' work schedules. “Mom and Dad” feel compelled to be there, to nurture the egos of this generation. The stands are full and the kids play to the gallery. I feel sorry for them. We only had to answer to our coach and our teammates. Players today have to please the crowd, half of which is cheering them on; the other half, not so much. The game is played in multi-field complexes, equipped with refreshment stands, public address systems, batting cages, fences painted with colorful corporate logos and manicured playing surfaces. We were lucky if the hastily thrown-up snow fence reached all the way around the field.
Kids today wear batting gloves, batting helmets, base-running helmets and rubber-cleated shoes. They sit on covered benches, a chilled sports drink at their side. We wore old sneakers and shared a catcher’s mitt with the other team. Sometimes, we had a soda after the game, provided we could scrounge up enough deposit bottles on the trip from the ballfield to the neighborhood grocery store. You no longer hear the “crack of the bat. It's been replaced with the “ping” of an expensive aluminum ball-hitting mechanism. We started the season with four new wooden bats, all of which were eventually cracked from hitting the ball on the label, and held together with friction tape. The new ball that was budgeted for each game often ended up wrapped in tape as well, its cover having been blasted off by a pee-wee slugger in the third inning. Little League was for the kids; now the adults have taken it over. Too bad! Or is it? You decide.
Merlin Lessler, also known as “The Old Coot,” lives in Owego and is a frequent contributor to the Opinions section.
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