The word "baseball" means a lot of different things to me. It's a word that denotes not only a sport, but a way of life. You know the speech James Earl Jones gives about baseball at the end of Field of Dreams?
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America is ruled by it like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh, people will come, Ray. People will come most definitely come."The first time I ever heard that speech, I sobbed like a baby.
As Michael gets into baseball more and more, lots of feelings long dormant in my brain are coming to the surface.
I grew up with baseball. As I've mentioned, my grandfather Bob Hasty was a baseball player. He started playing seriously when he went in the army during World War I. He never got shipped overseas, because the guys in camp realized he was an awesome baseball player and wanted him to stay and win games - that's the story, at least. All I know is, right after the war he was signed by the Atlanta Crackers, and he started making news. He was signed shortly afterward to play for the Philadelphia Athletics, and he pitched for them for 5 years. He told my mother, the first major league baseball game he ever saw, he played in. He was supposed to be a farmer, but his massive strength, size, and intelligence, made him an awesome baseball player. He played for more than twenty years, although only 5 were in the majors.
When I was in my 20's I started learning everything I could about Papaw's career, and I learned a lot about baseball history. I found two baseball cards with his likeness. I spent a lot of time talking to my mother and my uncles about baseball and Papaw. I needed to understand.
I grew up going to Braves games at Fulton County Stadium. I remember going to two Old Timer's Day games and seeing my grandfather honored on the field. I still have those programs. I saw him only once in his baseball uniform. It was a magical day.
Watching a baseball game at my grandparents house was fun and scary at the same time. You didn't talk or make noise. You sat quietly and watched. It was like church.
My grandmother was as big a baseball fan as Papaw. She had traveled with him when he played for the A's, and used to keep records of all the players on the other teams, and what they did. For instance, she knew if Papaw threw a fastball at a certain player he would always hit it, or another player might always hit a high curve, things like that. They would analyze what happened after each game. That was the 1920's - long before modern day stats and videos.
Mamaw knew baseball. I remember as a kid being awed by the fact that she would call a play before the umpire, and she was always right. The runner might look safe at first base, but Mamaw would say "Nope, he's OUT." He would get called out. If the umpire made a mistake - that is to say didn't call the same thing she did - she was outraged. That was before the instant replay. After instant replay, she was always vindicated by the replay.
Baseball is a game of the mind and the heart, as much as the body. It's a game of strategy. You watch the interplay between the catcher and the pitcher, and it seems like a lull, but it's not. It's a carefully choreographed dance. Then the THWOCK of ball hitting bat, and it becomes electrifying. No other sport can compare.
My grandfather loved the game. After he left Philadelphia he continued to play in the minor leagues for almost 10 more years, until just before my mother was born. It was hard on Mamaw, with two little boys, and I'm sure she often felt like a single parent. Road trips meant Papaw was gone a lot. He didn't make much money, either. In the 1930's, he played for different companies and was given a token job of some kind, but his real job was to manage the baseball team, and play. Companies were serious about their sports. I think up north basketball was big, but in the south it was baseball.
My grandfather didn't leave major league baseball willingly. He left because he was accused of being in the Ku Klux Klan and beating a woman. It wasn't true. It was absurd. He was vocally outspoken against the Klan, and was well-known around Marietta and Acworth as a straight arrow. He didn't drink or smoke. He didn't cuss. He ignored the legions of prostitutes Mamaw would said would meet the trains when the baseball teams got into town. However, someone accused him of a horrible crime, and although the charges were eventually dropped for lack of evidence, the damage was done. Connie Mack, who was Catholic, decided the accusation was probably true, and benched Papaw for almost an entire season before selling his contract to a minor league team out in Oregon. In those days, players were pawns. They didn't have agents negotiating fat salaries. He had to go to Oregon and play out his contract. In the 1920's there was no major league baseball west of the Mississippi. Connie Mack's name was always spoken with great loathing in my grandparents' house, but I never learned why until I grew up and started asking questions.
I wrote a screenplay called Season of Ashes, based on the story. I am not much of a screenwriter but it's a great story. It's also a love story. My grandmother went from being the daughter of a rich man, a pampered debutante married to the local celebrity, to living in boardinghouses out west for several years, scrounging for money and far from home. Even after he came back east and got a place on the Birmingham Barons team, there was no money. There was, however, baseball, a game both my grandparents loved.
Every time I go to Michael's practices, I feel sad, for a lot of reasons.
I feel sad because I feel keenly the fact that I am a single mom. Baseball is a place for daddies and sons. The dads are everywhere. They are clearly pleased and proud of their boys.
I feel sad because Michael has to work a bit harder than the other boys, since he has only the one hand.
I feel sad because I didn't get him involved in baseball earlier. I don't know if there's any chance of him playing on another team, with his lack of experience and at his age, 13. He turns 14 this summer.
I feel sad because I remember the fact my uncles and the other men in our family always felt the shadow of Papaw looming behind them when they played ball. My uncle Bobby Hasty Jr. was a great baseball player and played a lot in the 1950's on company teams and even started to play minor league ball before quitting. Everywhere he went, reporters dogged him about being Bob Hasty's son. The pressure was intense.
Papaw had three grandsons. My cousin Robert, Bobby's son, is mentally challenged. My cousin Bill - I don't know if he ever played baseball or how he felt about it. They lived far away, in Chicago, most of those years. My brother played little league just for a short time, but I think he always knew he would never be the player Papaw was, and felt it was too much pressure, and quit.
Michael is free from the family expectations. Both my grandparents are dead. He is the great-grandson of a magnificent baseball player. He is also a descendant of Kazakhs and Russians, who were fierce warriors on the steppes of Russia and Northern Asia. When I look at Michael and see the love in his eyes for the game, I am sad a little bit but I am also so proud. For Michael, there is only the love of the game, the ability to play and be part of something uniquely American, and uniquely ours.
