As we age, it’s important to exercise our memory so that what we remember isn’t just lost like dishwater swirling down the drain.
Hence, this chronological catalogue of my baseball/softball past:
—1962-63: Fireballs and Jetsons, Columbus Kiwanis League.
—1964-67: Home Company, Ashland Little League.
—1968-69: National Latex, Ashland Pony League.
—1970-71: Guy’s Goodyear, Ashland Colt League.
—1972: Junior Varsity, Ashland High School.
—1973-76: Third Base Lounge/Red Barn, Ashland Slowpitch League.
—1977: Glory Guys, Ashland City Fastpitch Tournament.
—1978-2000: St. Edward’s, Ashland Church Fastpitch League.
That’s 38 consecutive years, quite a long time, nearly half my life.
In the intervening quarter century, however, nothing, not a peep, not a blip on the radar, nothing but some Ping-Pong, a little golf, lots of bowling, a bit of pool, some tennis and a quick dalliance with pickleball, America’s so-called “fastest-growing sport.”
That venture was particularly disillusioning.
After leaving our hometown in fall 2000, my wife (who wouldn’t actually become that until Oct. 22, 2007) and I settled into a gated community in New Bern, North Carolina, an enclave known as Fairfield Harbour. It had 56 miles of paved roads, two golf courses, four marinas, a waterfront restaurant and 900 very nice homes.
But it didn’t have anything remotely resembling an authentic outlet for someone’s competitive drive, though I heard about some scintillating bridge parties and a goose hunt that was pretty bloody, a rather savage exercise in human brutality brought about when some entitled residents became enraged when the peaceful fowls defecated on their precious putting greens. They wanted death now.
You couldn’t really count it as a fair fight, more of a massacre.
At the town’s newspaper, where I served as senior night editor, a story came across my desk that vividly described how geese were beaten, strangled and, in some cases, gassed in a mobile Auschwitz.
After consulting with my boss, who contacted his boss, the story ran, and man, oh man, did the proverbial goose poop ever hit the fan. You’d have thought we’d uncovered a sleazy sex ring or an illegal gun-running operation, maybe a sect of (gasp!) Democrats.
That was the thing about Fairfield Harbour folk. They weren’t accustomed to reading the truth or hearing “no” for an answer.
Years later, then, after my job had been outsourced to a military town 50 miles inland, a sad place my wife and I had no interest in moving, I became a security officer, essentially manning the gate in our gated community. It was an interesting position, and I worked with some fine people, mostly all dedicated to their work.
But I still had no outlet for my sporting urge, nothing to serve as a way to meet people and then, when the games began, beat them.
Enter pickleball.
My wife told me about a community-wide orientation session, open to all residents over 50, to be held in a few days: some basic instruction, the rules of the sport and blah, blah, blah, ad infinitum.
“Nah,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like anything I’d be interested in.”
She gave me one of her looks, but all she said was, “You sure?”
As you’ve probably guessed, I showed up that Saturday morning and went through the entire indoctrination process. We hit white Wiffle balls with plastic paddles, mastering serves and returns, all the while having a good time in the southern spring sunshine.
I went back the next week for practice games, singles and doubles and started to wonder when the real competition would begin. I knew there was a travel team — those folks had conducted our training session — and I was curious as to how to achieve a spot.
That was my mistake. What I envisioned as a step ladder to advancement was actually, in reality, an exercise in camaraderie. I reported dutifully for a month but soon grew weary when my questions about league structure and scheduling were deflected.
“We’re just here to have fun,” I was told, and I knew it was over.
As you know, I played ball for 38 straight years, and in all that time, I never once thought of it as just having fun. What I learned was that as long as they were keeping score, the object was to win, and after that, you’d try to do it again and again and again, ad infinitum.
Sometimes I think about how many games in how many places I played, the towns and the tournaments, the titles and the trophies. I remember the rivalries and the occasional brawls, the tough losses and the sublime victories, the way the cool of the evening felt when the triumph had been secured and it was time for pitchers.
I count it as a personal achievement that I was a contributing member of a Church League team for parts of four decades, the late '70s through the Millennium season. It makes me smile.
These days that’s more than enough, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t believe I could still go out there and play, just to win again.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page,where winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.
