The Original Boys of Summer - Before Steroids

In 1987, Roger Kahn wrote a novel entitled The Boys of Summer. Kahn's was a baseball book centered on the Brooklyn Dodgers and their exploits of the early 1950's.

My memories of the boys of summer that I grew up with in the late 40's and early 50's featured a different cast of characters, different environments, and most assuredly different rules.

Kahn's characters were professional athletes. Robinson, Snider, Campanella, Lockman, Reese, Furillo, Preacher Roe, and others. Their playing ground was Ebbetts Field. All of the Dodgers were heroes to many and hated rivals to others. They set standards for performance that were admired by most and achieved by few.

But my boys......

Summer mornings began with heavy dew and muggy heat. But by eight o’clock every boy for a half mile in every direction congregated on the vacant space next to the high school football field. Fortunately, it was across the street from my house. No grown-ups present…they all had things to do. They had their kid’s word for where they would be. And that was good enough.

Paper bags served as bases and were located as close to the dimensions of a baseball field as possible. Three boys would bring the best baseballs they owned (all of them are old and ragged) and two or three wooden bats would appear. Most were discards from the high school team. The bats had a common trait. They’d all been broken, pinned together by small wire nails, and then taped with friction tape to reinforce the repair work. The idea of having a new bat was ludicrous. The ones we had worked fine. Most of the kids had some sort of baseball gloves. Often, the better players were the ones that didn’t.

The two kids that were considered by the majority to be the best players were named captains/coach/manager. Often, one of them would claim that they really weren’t one of the two best. The motivation here was neither modesty nor honesty. It’s an attempt to end up on the team with the other best player. It never worked. They chose their teammates by alternately calling out the names from all of those attending. Everyone was chosen. If there was an odd number, it really didn’t matter. Having the weakest player as an extra was never considered to be an advantage. In fact, when he had to bat it became a disadvantage. And being recognized as the weakest player was not an intended insult. No matter where they were picked, the kids knew who was the best and who was the weakest player. It was just a recognized fact that we all knew would end with another year’s growth and experience.

The captains would then assign positions. This wasn’t very tough because before too much time had passed, the fastest kids had become considered by everyone to be outfielders, the slower ones first basemen, those that threw the best were named pitchers and shortstops, and finally, if there was one willing to do it, the catcher position was filled. The catcher also served as the umpire calling balls and strikes. If you were willing to catch, you always got chosen before that last name was called. I played catcher.

Semi-regular rules of baseball were used with a few exceptions; no nine-inning rule and the number of players was determined by how many showed up. The game continued until mothers began calling their sons home for lunch. That usually took about an hour and a half. There was the process of cleaning up, doing a few small chores that had been discovered during the time the morning game was played, eating, and following that sage advice that every Southern mother fervently believed in, “You can’t go and get hot until your lunch settles”.

And as soon as all of the mothers were satisfied that we wouldn’t get heat stroke or worse, the game resumed. All games were ended by darkness or rain. Every day. Six days a week.

Things began to change in 1952. Little League baseball was introduced to Moss Point. With uniforms and regulation fields and new bats and balls. And real umpires and scorekeepers. And, worst of all, parents. Not all parents. Just some. Helping.

There is a tragedy here for those of us who know the difference. There are no longer vacant lots or fields that kids can safely play on unsupervised. They can’t ride their bicycles a half mile through traffic going 60 miles per hour so that they can meet. And there are no longer parents that truly believe that their children are capable of organizing and conducting and even teaching games without adult help. And we worry that if my child is chosen last he will be damaged psychologically and scarred for life instead of realizing that next year he will be a year older and will likely be the choosing captain as a rite of passage into the second or third grade. Or he may find out that he doesn't like baseball. And that's not all bad.

While many thought that The Boys of Summer was the best baseball book ever written, one reviewer said that it really was not even a book about baseball. He said it was a book about courage, love, hate, determination, gratitude, loss, rebirth, frustration, jubilation, acceptance, and family. At its core, he said, it's a book about life.

And if he had added responsibility, teamwork, sharing, leadership, maturation, and an unbelievable amount of good fortune, he could have been talking about my Boys of Summer as well.

At least that's the way I remember it.....