Red Vines have never been my favorite candy. That distinction would almost always go to Jolly Ranchers (or as my wife calls them “Jolly Rogers”). But the taste and smell of Red Vines makes me think fondly of those I would purchase at the baseball field snack bar during my brief stint in the Strawberry Little League.
Back then, I followed dutifully in my older brother, John’s, footsteps. He played the clarinet; I played clarinet. He took French in middle school; I took French in middle school. But before that, he played Little League baseball, so that’s where I was headed at the ripe young age of seven.
You have to understand that I am not a natural athlete. What sports I have excelled at, such as skiing and cycling, took a lot of dedication and effort. And baseball was clearly not my thing. Nevertheless, I tried out one Saturday in spring and found myself as a proud member of the Beavers. As I picture my teammates, it was obvious that we were more eager Beavers than athletically talented ones. While I can’t remember many of their names, we were definitely a collection of misfits. In fact, several of us ended up in the arts, if that says anything. Bravely, we embarked on a journey to vanquish the Crickets, Grasshoppers, Ravens and the other assorted fauna of our extremely Little League.
I ended up where all players with my remarkable lack of ability end up: right field. The logic being that right field is where the ball ends up least often. Unfortunately, at Strawberry Field, if you are playing a late afternoon game and are camped out in right field, the setting sun sits squarely in your eyes, with the rest of the infield plunged into deep shadow, not unlike the kind of light and dark found on the moon. The only warning you get that something important is coming your way is the sudden crack of the bat and your teammates yelling “Get it! Get it!” Oh, how I would have liked to do exactly that. But with the ball descending in a direct line with the sun, the chances were surprisingly small. In fact, I don’t think that I ever really “got one.” I never even knew where to run to get under the ball, so my only response was to wait for it to hit the grass (groans from the infield), chase after it, and throw it in the vague direction of second base, which I couldn’t see, having just been blinded by the sun (more groans). As the ball rolled to its final destination, and the opposing players circled the bases, I would resume my useless position in right field, having effectively passed the buck to those more capable than I.
Standing at the plate, I was not much better. I do clearly remember my first at-bat, though. Our coach told me to stand very close to home plate. He said that since I was so short (and presumably vulnerable), the pitcher would want to avoid hitting me and thus give me a walk. Whether he underestimated the pitcher’s compassion, or his accuracy, is unknown at this point. What is known is that the first pitch I ever faced in a genuine Little League game hit me squarely on the upper left arm. After I got over my shock at this affront to my seven-year-old dignity, I was encouraged to “take” first base, having bravely “taken one” for the team. From there, I made it to second on the next hit, before the side was retired and I retreated to right field to nurse my sore arm and chew on the convenient leather tie that dangled from the web of my glove. Gnawing on that tiny string of leather is yet another strong memory of my time waiting for the call-up to “The Show.”
There was one afternoon when I did get a taste of the Big Leagues. We were losing badly, as usual, and our frustrated coach decided to humiliate the infield by having them swap positions with us outfielders. And that is how I found myself, for the one and only time, as guardian of second base. Now, you have to understand that I had no more idea of what to do at second base than I would have had at the controls of a Boeing 707, but there I was. I didn’t even know where to stand, until shouted instructions from the dugout clarified my position. Apparently, you are not supposed to be standing literally atop the base, as the name would suggest. Fortunately, nothing much happened. Oh, perhaps a ball came my way that I made a vague attempt to catch, but I can’t be sure. The glare of flash bulbs from the sporting press as they covered this momentous occasion makes my memory a bit hazy. But if the point was really and truly to humiliate the supposedly better players, then my improbable occupation of hallowed ground was a grand success.
As I recall, we lost every game that season, and all but one the next, before I moved on to the Cub Scouts, where I was decidedly more successful. While I didn’t miss the disgusting dugouts with their carpet of litter or the daily reminders of my inability to master any of the game’s skills, I did miss the snack bar, where a packet of Red Vines could be had for ten cents, and a hot dog with mustard for a quarter. As often as I could, I would venture down to the field to watch my friends play, slowly gnaw on a Red Vine and reminisce about my brief stay as the franchise right fielder with the Strawberry Little League Beavers.
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