April 15, 2020

By Scott Langdon

Canadian Baseball Network

“The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by 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: it’s a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again.”

James Earl Jones to Kevin Costner
Field of Dreams

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I remember it as a humid, summer-hot day in late spring 1960.

The kind of day when you slide into second base and you can taste the gritty dust on your lips until you go home for a bath. The kind of day when the dirt gets caked on the ankles of your white socks. The kind of day when your new white sneakers are anything but when it’s over. The kind of day you remember for a lifetime.

It was the day of the first baseball game I played.

I was underage. My coach had stretched the truth about my age on the registration form. Dave Smellie was his name and he was my coach for the next five years.

I was lefthanded playing shortstop. A bit unusual, but Mr. Smellie was a bit unusual as I had already learned.

I was the shortstop for the first six and two-thirds innings. And then, Mr. Smellie called, “Time” and motioned me to the mound.

I was ten years old, 59 years ago. I don’t remember what I was thinking, but I can imagine.

Suddenly, I was my idol Sparky Anderson, new infielder for the now-defunct Toronto Maple Leafs of the AAA International League, my hometown team. If they brought Sparky in to pitch he would find a way. What 10-year-old boy wouldn’t idolize a scrappy, second baseman named Sparky.

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Anderson would go on to become one of Major League Baseball’s all-time great, Hall of Fame managers with powerhouse teams in Cincinnati and Detroit. But he got started on his managerial career as the Leafs’ field manager in 1964, retiring as a player at the age of 30.

In 1960, the Leafs won the International League pennant. They were a farm team of the Cleveland Indians. They finished with a record of 100-54, 17 games ahead of the Richmond Virginians, the Yankees’ affiliate.

The Bisons were in Buffalo. The Bisons have been in Buffalo forever. They were affiliated with the Philadelphia Phillies, not the Toronto Blue Jays of today. The Montreal Royals were a shadow of themselves from the Jackie Robinson era, mired in last place, 38 games out of first. It would turn out to be the last year of that storied minor league franchise.

The Havana Sugar Kings became the Jersey City Jerseys in mid-season when Fidel Castro nationalized all U.S.-owned businesses in Cuba. The Jerseys existed for the rest of the season, plus one. They went out of business due to lack of attendance. I can imagine Castro smiling through his bushy, black beard.

The Leafs were an institution in Toronto at the time. That’s right the baseball team, not just those hockey guys. Believe it or not, Leafs’ teams in 1902, 1918, 1920, 1926 and 1960, of course, were recognized among the 100 greatest minor league baseball teams of all time.

The Toronto Maple Leafs existed from 1896 to 1967, becoming one of the longest-running franchises in professional baseball.

I remember 1967, too.

A baseball teammate at the time, Bobby Hunter, took me to a Leafs’ game. But this was special. His father owned the team.

Robert L. Hunter and Sam Star bought the Leafs in 1964 from Jack Kent Cooke in the hope of keeping the franchise alive. They attempted to sell shares in the team, the old community-ownership attempt, but it fell flat by all accounts. Mr. Hunter was quoted somewhere near the end saying the team had lost half a million dollars despite their best and valiant efforts to keep professional baseball alive in Toronto.

But that one game with Bobby sticks with me. He wouldn’t remember I’m sure because it was no doubt old hat to him.

I had my first experience in the locker room of a professional baseball team that day. I’m a bit fuzzy on this, but I think the visiting team was the Rochester Red Wings. Bobby took me in there hoping we could scoff a glove from somebody. It was near the end of the season – and the end of the line for the Leafs – after all.

I did not end up with a free glove. I did, though, come away with some memories.

The room was small. Amenities were not extravagant, to say the least. Honestly – and surprisingly to me - it was a bit dumpy. But the stadium was built in 1926. What should I have expected? It just didn’t jive with what I imagined.

And, horrors to a teenaged baseball player, a lot of those guys seemed old and kind of – what shall I say – chubby. Apologies to those guys, but that’s my memory.

In the early 1960s, I went to quite a few games at Maple Leaf Stadium, or the Fleet Street Flats as it was often called, either with my Uncle Ernie, who had season seats behind third base, or with friends, usually neighbours Greg and Lloyd Service.

One game the three of us sat for multiple innings with a police officer standing in front of us facing the field. Inning after inning we discarded our peanut shells deftly onto the top of his flat, black hat. He didn’t notice for the longest time. I don’t remember what happened when did. Probably just as well, but it must not have been too bad. I don’t know how we stifled the laughter. We still laugh about it decades later.

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After Mr. Smellie called “Time” and waved me to the pitcher’s mound, he handed me the ball and left.

The me-as-Sparky Anderson illusion probably went away quickly, replaced by a whole lot of anxiety. The bases were loaded, one-run lead, two out. Why me? was probably one of the thoughts running through my head.

It would be nice if my memory was striking the batter out on three pitches. Nice, but no. I remember we won, but many of the details have faded.

That’s the thing about baseball memories. They can be easy to recall because everything is recorded and written down at the professional level. But at our level, as 10-year-old kids, we can re-live our memories the way we and only we remember them…good or bad…fair or foul. They, like the game itself, belong to the fans, not the owners or the players or the big business professional baseball has become.

I miss pretty much everything about baseball. Walking up the ramp at a stadium on a sunlit afternoon and getting that first splendid glimpse of the verdant green infield grass. The sound of ball off bat. The history and lore. Making a catch in centre field. Fielding a ground ball at first base. Pumped by striking somebody out. Deflated by giving up a hit. Hot dogs. The friendships.

I miss pretty much everything about baseball except sports stories discussing labor strife, contract disagreements and the potential cancellation of an entire season due to a virus most of us had never heard of before now.

What do you miss about baseball? Let us know at canadianbaseballnetwork.com.