Katie Casey was baseball mad,
Had the fever and had it bad.
Just to root for the home town crew,
Ev’ry sou
Katie blew.
On a Saturday her young beau
Called to see if she’d like to go
To see a show, but Miss Kate said “No,
I’ll tell you what you can do:”

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
At the old ball game.

~Jack Norworth, 1908

 

Introduction:

Earlier this year I was walking to the local co-op, a recently acquired taste for Himalayan style dumplings calling me hence. It was late afternoon, and thankfully not one plagued by the thunderstorms or Canadian wildfire smoke that marked the Vermont summer of 2023. There’s a reason why D.W. Griffith referred to this time of day as the magic hour. The sun seeped through the green of the trees, painting warm shadow portraits upon the sidewalk. Dandelion seeds and pollen danced through the air, which was fragrant with flora and freshness and life. I can’t explain why, but walking amongst the lush greenery and old Victorian houses I was reminded of a June evening in the long-ago year of 1999. I had been invited to accompany my brother’s traveling baseball team to Cooperstown New York, home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame. Our first night up there, the whole team was sitting at a long table behind a restaurant out in the country. A large field opened up just beyond the table, the woods sitting a few hundred feet away. I don’t know who brought them, but we happened to have a couple of tennis balls and a bat with us. One by one the kids drifted away from the table, and before you knew it hats had morphed into bases, sides were chosen, and a stickball game was underway. Looking back on it now, upon the hazy memories of a hazy evening it was almost dreamlike, and so very appropriate for Cooperstown. Baseball, in the various forms it has taken for me over the years, has been one of the most meaningful things in my life. The game and my formative youth were thoroughly intertwined, and many of my favorite memories revolve around the game. Here I’ll share a few fragmented stories and half-remembered antidotes. And with that said, play ball!

 

Part 1: Run Pudgie, Run!

Now anybody who played baseball with me growing up could tell you that I was not the most fleet of foot. Though I played hard in any sport I tried, my brother had all of my mother’s athletic gifts passed to him. But there was one night, one moment, when I flew like the wind. I was in the 5th grade and, well let’s just say that my batting average was probably below the Mendoza Line. It was a night game under the bright lights of Everett Field, with it’s crisp grass infield, maroon painted wooden outfield wall and snack bar. This was as close as a Verona kid could get to prime time back then. It was in the middle innings of one of those long-ago contests when I came up with the bases loaded. Now I was about the last guy our team wanted up in that situation, but I was what we had. The first pitch I saw I cracked a flyball down the right field line. The right fielder made what looked like a rolling attempt at a catch, but missed as the ball rolled all the way to the wall. As soon as I saw the ball get by him I was off to the races, catching the third base coach continuing to wave as I steamed around second. From there I was no longer cognizant of what signals he was giving, or any noise for that matter. I couldn’t even feel my feet touch the clay as I rounded third and headed home. About halfway to the plate, I noticed that the catcher wasn’t positioning to receive a relay throw home, which was for the best, because I would’ve slammed into that son of a bitch with every ounce I had. Nobody was going to deny me my moment. I crossed home with an inside the park grand slam, and all the noise rushed back in with a crash as my teammates mobbed me, my father beaming from ear to ear. My mother would later laugh that she had no idea I could run like that. In all the years I played baseball it was the only home run I would ever hit. That night, as I lay in my bed the noise was still ringing in my ears, my mind still replaying my mad dash around the bases. I would find no sleep that night, but it didn’t matter, I’d had my shining moment in the sun.

 

Part 2: Bragging Rights

In all the years I played baseball, I never was a part of a championship team, at least as an active player. More on that later. However, I can claim to be a member of the team that captured the 1996 Douglas Place World Series. Wiffle Ball World Series that is. My older brother Patrick and I squared off against the mighty Zabady brothers, Brian and Chris in a seven-game series to determine wiffle ball supremacy for the block. We had to play in the street after being kicked out of every viable yard on the block, so out came the chalk to mark the pitchers mound and outfield fence, a manhole cover serving as home.  My brother and I began rhythmic clapping and chanting as we prepared to do battle in game one, the Zabady brothers probably wondering what these fighting, cursing hooligans from two doors down were up to. Didn’t help us any, we dropped the first game and two of the first three. We weren’t helped by the fact that, while both Zabady brothers could pitch, I could do little more than toss batting practice. We evened the series in game four with our best offensive output of the whole series. I smashed two home runs while Patrick parked four of them… because of course he did. The most memorable game came the next night, the pivotal game 5, which went into extra innings (our traditional game was 6 innings) as we dueled through the growing darkness. By the 8th it was almost pitch black, the Zabady brothers moved ahead 7-6 in the top of the inning, Chris having scored all the way from first as I tripped trying to grab Brian’s line drive. With two outs in the bottom of the inning, Patrick slapped a hard grounder past the mound and legged out for a double. Now it was up to me, and after tapping one of Chris’ nasty curveballs foul, I got on top of a fastball and launched it into deep centerfield. In the now complete darkness, Brian lost the ball and it dropped in. Patrick raced home with the tying run and I somehow dodged Brian’s peg attempt, ending up on second. Patrick then sent a screaming line drive past Chris as I rumbled home with the winning run. Patrick sprinted at me through the darkness and tackled me joyfully onto a neighboring lawn. We had pulled it out, and next morning we would capture game 6 and the series. Utterly delirious, my brother and I grabbed a couple of bottles of seltzer and sprayed each other on our front porch. My mother had heard us stomping through the house from upstairs and came outside to see what on earth we were up to.

“Oh, you boys won the series. Congratulations… and thanks for not using soda.”

 

Part 3: “Go Scratch Your Ass Larry”

Going into my 8th grade year I was well aware that it would likely be my last go around. For five seasons prior (the last four of which my father managed), my teams had not once finished with a winning record and only once made the playoffs. But that year was different, starting with landing a number 2 pick in the draft and selecting Mike Rosenfeld. A hard-hitting shortstop who also happened to be one of the two best pitchers in my year (the other being Will “The Thrill” Traverso). We had a dynamite supporting cast as well, featuring Matt Giordano, Jake Filak, Conner Hand, Blake White and “Downtown” Martin Brown. It was easily the most complete team I would ever play on. I did my best as a backup catcher, second baseman and sometime outfielder, but I was a bottom of the lineup guy. Where I did excel though was, surprisingly enough, stealing bases. Whenever I was able to manage getting on base I was looking to swipe a bag, and I wasn’t bad either, in the span of two seasons only getting caught stealing once, and that was trying to steal home in a playoff game. I think part of this was owed to the genuine surprise of the other teams, who couldn’t quite believe the pudgy backup catcher was running on them. I was also pretty good at studying how long the pitcher took to deliver home, what their pickoff move looked like and which of my fellow catchers had accurate arms. We started out hot, going 4-0 out of the gate. Now we would struggle in the second half of the season but still managed to finish 7-5 and claim the last playoff spot. In the semi-final against the top ranked team, we not only scored the upset victory but mercy ruled them! Conner Hand drilled a grand slam off the great Will Traverso and drove him from the game. When the final out was recorded, I ran leaping towards the mound from my position in right field. I couldn’t believe it, after all these years of disappointment I was finally going to get a shot to play in our league’s world series! In game one of the best of three series, we found ourselves down 4-1 in the middle innings. Mike Rosenfeld was on first with a one out single when Matt Giordano came to the plate. Matt crushed a fly ball over the center fielder’s head. Mike steamed around the bases and was given the wave by the third base coach (who I’m fairly sure was his father Jay) to try and score. My dad, who was carefully watching next to the cage surrounding home plate, yelled for Mike to stay up. He could see there wasn’t going to be a close play at home and knew Mike was playing sick, so he tried to save him from sliding unnecessarily. Meanwhile Matt was already on second base when the relay throw came in. The shortstop, Jordan Iannuzzi, pivoted to make the throw home. His father Larry, who was the opposing manager, yelled for him to hold the ball as he could also see that there was little chance of cutting Rosenfeld down at home and Matt would consequently be able to advance on the throw. Jordan must not have heard or listened, because he chucked the ball home. Their all-star catcher, Jay Palatucci, moved out to try and somehow make a play. That’s when all hell broke loose. The relay throw hit the top of the backstop and bounded out towards the pitcher’s mound. Meanwhile Jay, who had moved into the baseline to try and field the throw, collided with Mike, both going down in a heap as Matt took the opportunity to scramble to third base. Mike managed to get up and touch home, cutting the deficit to 4-2. We now had a runner on third with just one out, and our best power hitter Conner Hand coming to the plate. The home plate umpire then called in the base umpire and a conference began.

What happened next still strangles up my baseball mind to this day. The home plate umpire called Mike out for interference and sent Matt all the way back to first base. My mind was completely blown as I crumpled down on the bench, my father immediately going behind home plate to have a discussion with the ump. In vain, my dad attempted to explain that the catcher had no play on the relay throw as we all watched it hit the top of the backstop (which was at least 12 feet high, so not even Shaq was going up to get that one). Furthermore, the catcher cannot block the runner’s basepath to the plate without possession of the ball, which Jay absolutely did not have. The ump was unmoved, claiming that our baserunner had intentionally run over the catcher to break up the play, which would’ve had merit if the catcher had the damn ball! By this point my father was getting incredibly frustrated with the umpire, who clearly didn’t have a grasp on the rules of baseball. It was then that the opposing manager, Larry Iannuzzi, petitioned my father to just let it go so we could get the game going again. My father shot back, “Oh go scratch your ass Larry!” Mr. Iannuzzi was of course flabbergasted by this lapse in decorum, the umpire threatened to throw my father out of the game and, utterly helpless I broke down in tears on the bench. The umpire attempted to shame my father for making his own son cry with his cursing, to which my father curtly replied that I wasn’t upset because he said a bad word but because of the blown call. He then returned to the dugout and reminded me that there was no crying in baseball as the game continued. Larry Iannuzzi proceeded to have Conner Hand intentionally walked in an absolute chicken shit move (I’m sure Mr. Iannuzzi is a perfectly decent man, but intentionally walking below high school ball is just bad form as far as I’m concerned) before Blake White flew out to end the inning. We would go on to lose game one, and after my father was forced by the league to apologize to the opposing team for swearing in front of them, we fell in the second game as well to lose the series. I had stolen second base with two out in the last inning and was attempting to steal third base when Downtown Martin Brown hit a looping line drive that was caught by the shortstop to clinch the championship. I made the long walk back to the first base dugout as the other team jubilantly dogpiled around the pitchers mound, fully cognizant that my baseball career was over and my last chance to win a competitive team championship had slipped through my fingers. I was thoroughly dejected for days afterwards, having felt so certain we’d bring home the title that I was at a loss for what had gone so wrong. And as clearly evidenced by recounting the story here in this article, I am still fucking pissed about that call over twenty-two years later. But the most meaningful thing to happen during all of that was after the final game of the series. When we got in the car my dad was in tears, not because we’d lost but because he knew that this was the last time he’d ever get to coach me. I didn’t fully comprehend the moment, as many kids tend not to, but for five years my old man found the time to manage my baseball teams, through hectic work schedules, my mother’s illness and the grief that followed her death, he made it a priority to share the game he loved with me. And while I may still have some measure of bitterness at how my last game turned out, this story also reminds me of why I love my father so much.

 

Part 4: A Wonderful Gesture

In the summer of 1999, I was still enveloped in shock and grief over my mother’s passing that June. At the time I felt the best way to deal with it was to keep as busy as possible so I wouldn’t have to grapple with how complete the loss really was. I threw myself into whatever game I was playing with all the fire and competitiveness I could muster. I played an endless amount of video games, hung around my best friend Bill Buzaid’s house, watched countless movies, anything to distract myself from how I really felt. But I could only run for so long, and in the darkness and stillness of my room at night, the grief always found me. It was during this time, on a hot July afternoon as I walked out of Verona’s day camp that I saw my father standing with Mr. Rosenfeld, perennial manager of my year’s Barnstormers (Verona’s traveling all-star team). What happened next stunned me. Jay said that the Barnstormers had decided to add me as an honorary member of the team, I’d get a jersey to wear (#25 for Mark McGwire) and would join the team in the dugout. I couldn’t believe it, I’d always dreamed of making the Barnstormers, but deep down inside I knew I never played well enough to get selected. And because my brother Patrick made his Barnstormers team every year it ate me up inside that I could never make mine. Of course I said yes, this was as close as I was ever going to get and it gave me something to look forward to, which I desperately needed. I can’t tell you exactly how many games I made it to, and I definitely airmailed an away playoff game (I got wrapped up in neighborhood wiffleball and completely lost track of time… my bad!) but I was most definitely there for the championship game at Everett Field in Verona. It was a tight contest, and the visiting team even tied the game in the top of the sixth inning with a dramatic two out home run. But in the bottom of the sixth we clinched the championship with, of all things, a walk-off suicide squeeze. I sprinted down the first base line to join the euphoric pile in foul territory. For those Barnstormers it was their second consecutive title, and the only time in my sporting life that I was ever a part of a championship team. I remember the opposing manager graciously distracting Mr. Rosenfeld while we snuck up to dump the water cooler on him. I also recall standing off to the side as, one by one, the players were called onto the field to receive their championship trophies, and being floored when Mr Rosenfeld called my name and handed me a trophy. I couldn’t articulate how happy I was in that moment and would proudly display it in my room for many years to come. A few nights later I got to play in a special exhibition game they held against the girls traveling softball team, even managed a few hits in the process. Two summers later that same Barnstormers team would bring me as one of their guests for their trip to Cooperstown, courtesy of the Traverso’s (one of the families that lovingly looked out for me in the years after my mother’s passing). I don’t believe I ever properly thanked the people involved in these wonderful gestures, (as again I was apt to do at that age) but I’ve never forgotten their generosity and kindness. So to the Traverso’s, Mr. Rosenfeld, and all the people who had a hand in this, from the bottom of my heart thank you. What you did helped convince a grieving boy that the world could still be a wonderful place.

 

 

 

Conclusion: 

There’s a line from the musical Oklahoma that I’m very fond of. “The sounds of the earth are like music.” And I think that rings true for anybody who loves the game. The gravely sound of the infield dirt under your spikes, the satisfying pop when the ball hits a mitt, the silent tension as every player and every spectator leans in for the next pitch, and the arresting thunder at the crack of the bat. Baseball is a symphony, in six to nine movements, and every spring we listen in the warming air for the return of our music.