A baseball childhood

In the 1960s, Houston didn't have as much concrete or air conditioning as it has now. Less concrete would suggest less heat; less air conditioning, though, meant that it felt just as hot then as it does now. And humid. Anybody who has been there, even just passing through the airport, knows that Houston is the Hottest and Most Humid Place on Planet Earth. 

Also, in those days, girls didn't play Little League. Nobody thought they wanted to. I didn't want to play, necessarily. I don't remember, anyway, yearning to play and being told that I couldn't. But because Dad had played, then my two older brothers were going to play, come hell or high water, as far as Dad was concerned. And because Dad and the boys were involved, then Mom, my sister and me went along for the ride.  Bleacher seats, free snow cones for retrieved foul balls, and Frito Pies were our rewards for tagging along. Our little field mainly consisted of a chain-link backstop, a concession stand, an announcer's PA system (after a few years), and a dirt field. I don't remember precisely, but I'm pretty sure that the outfield had grass. Even the field in the picture, above, is fancier than I remember ours being.  

In those days, most of the Little League games for our neighborhood were played in a place we called Coke Field.  It was called that because it was on land that belonged to the local Coca-Cola bottling plant, which owned a huge swath of land and had donated a certain amount of it to the Little League. It would be some years yet before West University Elementary would use a corner of its land for little league play; I didn't realize it then, but I actually watched that facility being built. Nobody knew then, I think, that it would grow into such a huge, modern facility.

What I remember the most about Coke Field, though, was not the field, or the concession stand, or the announcers' PA booth. I remember the little ditch that ran along the back side of the field, beyond the fence for the outfield. It was just a drainage ditch, but it was always full with clean, fresh water. (I have no idea if this water was some kind of run-off from the bottling plant, but I don't think so. I could be wrong about that, though. I'm pretty sure it was just all part of Houston's love affair with water in the atmosphere.)  I remember catching tiny little frogs from that ditch, playing with them gently, then releasing them back into the water. I remember trying to catch dragon flies and water bugs from the surface, but they were too fast. I remember the mosquitoes and the cat o'nine tails plants that grew there. I also remember, later, from the "Pony League" facility, the playground equipment that seemed like it was bigger and better than anything we had at Southside park.  That's probably only because it was newer at the time. 

Either way, I spent most of my time at my brothers' little league games playing, away from the action on the ball field.  These were hot and humid summer nights, with the sounds of the game being played in the background. The sounds of the game. 

Which leads me to another strong memory: Dad, listening to Astros game on the radio, playing solitaire. Network coverage of Major League Baseball then was not what it is now.  A televised game was special, and mostly for the major markets, like New York, and the major events, like the All-Star game and the World Series. Houston was just a distant backwater in those days.  But Dad, having grown up during the depression (when radio was huge) and loving the game, enjoyed listening to games on the radio. He had picked up solitaire from his years in the military, where cards are a way of life for enlisted men. So the game was always on at our house, when we weren't out at the field. Gene Elston's wonderful radio voice was a constant presence, as were the sounds of the game: the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the silences in between. 

Even now, one of the things I love about baseball is how it sounds. Football's sound is one of a constant roar, but baseball's sound has ups and downs, highs and lows. There are long games and short ones, fast games and slow. It's never the same. And for me, baseball and solitaire go hand-in-hand. Dad played his with cards, and I play mine with my Nintendo DS. Dad listened to the radio because he had no other option. I listen to the game on the satellite TV channel (while playing solitaire) as if it were the radio, looking up to see the replay.  

Somehow, then, from baseball's being the soundtrack of most of my childhood summers, the game became a part of me. I would learn to appreciate its strategies and complexities later, but as a child, it seeped in through the pores of my body that were gasping in the Houston humidity. 

Coming up: How did I learn it?