Every Pitcher Tells A Story
By Seth Swirsky
Times Books, $25.95
ISBN 081293055X

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It happened about 60 years ago, and it still is not only my greatest baseball memory, it's my greatest memory! The ensuing years have not diminished the incident.

It was the summer of 1941, and I was living only a 20-minute walk from Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, but I had never actually been inside the ballpark. I spent countless hours standing outside, hoping to catch a home-run ball after it cleared the wire-mesh screen in right field. Although an afternoon would produce a homer or two, the balls would never be touched by my glove.

As soon as I got home from school I'd turn on the radio to hear Red Barber explain what was happening just a 20-minute walk from my apartment. The highlight of the rare Saturday movie was the sports Newsreel showing how some of the Dodgers played the previous week.

The year 1941 was still the heart of the Depression for our family, and I rarely was able to come up with a dime for the Saturday movie. Getting enough money for a bleacher seat to watch a Dodgers game was out of the question. Even at age 11, I realized that my dad, who worked a 75-hour week to support us, felt terrible about having neither the time nor money to take me to Ebbets Field.

One Sunday, my father announced that he had received a raise. We would soon move to a new apartment, where instead of paying the $59.50 monthly rent he was used to paying, the monthly rent would be an exorbitant $72.50. The next Sunday the family took the 20-minute walk to see what soon would be our new abode.

As we approached the new apartment building, I noticed Dad looking at me with a look that I had never seen before. It was like a man trying to contain an impending sneeze. When we entered the apartment, I got the same feeling that my grandparents, parents, uncles, and aunts all described when seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time. Not one of the succeeding dozens of years has even come close to producing this feeling of ecstasy.

I looked out of the living room window and not only was able to see Ebbets Field but was able to see into Ebbets Field. Peewee, Cookie, Dolph, Ducky, Dixie, Pistol Pete, Mickey, Leo the Lip, all playing the St. Louis Cardinals outside of my window. The fact that this took place 17 years before decent color television baseball coverage and decades before skyboxes made my soon-to-be-acquired skybox apartment an unheard-of luxury. It also made me the most popular kid in Brooklyn -- 'til those greedy schmucks moved to L.A.

Mr. Broad won a book and a baseball autographed by Reggie Jackson.

Memories of the Old Game
By Verl L. Lekwa
Columbus Junction, Iowa

"Do you want to go to a baseball game, Grandpa?"

"Well . . . ." He wanted to say no, but he hesitated. He hadn't been to a game in 30 years or more.

"I borrowed a wheelchair from the Legion so you won't have to walk. We can leave the game any time you want."

"I don't know . . . ." The Old Man couldn't see very well. His hearing was bad. His legs had given out the past year. There wasn't any reason to go to a baseball game.

"Just try it." Finally he reluctantly consented. We drove the mile to the ball field.

"We can just sit in the car and watch, can't we?" the Old Man asked.

"You won't be able to see much from that far away. I'll wheel you up close. We don't have to stay if you don't want to."

The wheelchair came out, but he wasn't sure of it. "They'll say, 'What's an old man like that doin' at a ballgame?'" he said.

"No, they won't. Let's go." We got to the ticket taker. "Want to see his I.D. to see if he can get in free as a senior citizen?" The ticket taker laughed and waved us in. There was only a handful of fans, so we could wheel right up to the backstop, in the shade under the elevated scorer's platform, right behind the catcher.

The Old Man looked around. He didn't know a soul. He was silent. This morning he didn't know he was coming to a ballgame, and he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He felt out of place.

"Who's playin'?" the Old Man finally asked. It was the local high school and a team from down the road, two games, game time 4 p.m., so the game could be over before the lights were needed, for they were untrustworthy.

"Do I know anybody playin'?" the Old Man asked.

"See the shortstop practicing out there? That's Jeff, your great-grandson."

"That's just the way we used to practice before a game, years ago. Throwin' the ball around." Years ago to the Old Man meant many years ago. He played baseball when in rural Iowa it was a game mainly for hired farm hands and carpenters and small town merchants. And he played it well. At least he said he did, and there was no one around old enough to dispute the Old Man's memories.

A young boy walked up to the backstop, grabbed the fence and stared out at the players. "Just like it used to be," the Old Man chuckled. "Kids watchin' the older boys."

The Old Man asked if anyone remembered a man who pitched ages ago. No one did. He told how that great pitcher tangled with the Old Man in a standoff one day, "And I fouled off 18 straight pitches before I got a hit." The Old Man was a center fielder, he said, playing in farm pastures, and he claimed he could cover not only center field but parts of right and left as well. "A fella I played with said 'If the ball's in the air you just as well come in, 'cause he'll catch it.'" He was reliving old games in his mind while another game took place before his eyes.

The first game was finally over, and it was time to take Grandpa home again. But he wasn't ready to go. He wanted to watch the second game. He refused any food or drink, though it was supper time. He'd have some ice cream when he got home. He was watching baseball now, and the game was the familiar old game he knew back even before the First World War, of which he was a veteran.

The great-grandson came up late in the second game and got a timely hit, starting a rally that was to win the game.

"It's just like it used to be," he'd repeat once in a while. He'd ask what team was batting, or where the ball was hit, and it seemed he couldn't follow the game. Then on the next pitch he'd comment on how it looked too far inside to be a strike. The Old Man still knew his baseball.

When the second game was over he was wheeled out past the concession stand. "Yeah, there's where you get your food," he said. "Just like it used to be." When he began playing, the concession stand was a water jug with a corn cob for a stopper.

The Old Man was taken to his home, shared with a daughter. His walker was brought to the car. "I wouldn't have missed that for the world," he said. "It was just like it used to be."

The Old Man is 93, rounding third base heading for 94. His great-grandson of the timely hit is 15. The Old Man was not the real hero for going to the game at his advanced age; the boy was not the real hero for his hit. The real hero was baseball, which has been tinkered with but is still the game in which, as someone once put it, man came as close to perfection as possible: 90-foot basepaths.

And the heart of the game is not in Cooperstown or a domed stadium or an autograph session, not in the movies or books pouring out to chronicle the game. The heart of the game is the playing of it by those who get no money, just satisfaction. It's played in a sandy patch in El Paso and a mountain valley in West Virginia and a park in New York City, and on a prairie in Iowa with an old man saying what every true fan wants to say: The game is "just like it used to be."

Mr. Lekwa won a book and a baseball autographed by Steve Carlton.

Home Run Potential
By Debbie Hester
Madisonville, Tennessee

I had been watching this young guy for some time now. I knew he had great potential. I had just seen the movie Bull Durham, and I was sort of like Annie. I was keeping tabs on this new guy. But I had different plans from Annie's. I knew this guy had a home run in him, and I sure wanted to be there when he finally let it go.

The season hadn't been too good for him. He was new to the team and was having some difficulty adjusting. I could see the disappointment and impatience in the eyes of the head coach. He thought he had himself a real loser and was already planning some way to trade the new guy. But the new guy just wouldn't quit. He kept showing up for practice on time and plugging away at his attempts to hit the ball.

It was a night game in May. The lights of the ballpark were blaring down on the team and the spectators. I was sitting off to myself, not really thinking about much, just watching the bugs dance around the lights. Every now and then one would get too close and perish instantly. It was a little humid and the night air was causing my curly hair to frizz. I almost hadn't come because frizzy hair really upsets me.

Well as luck would have it, the bases were loaded and my guy was up to bat. I saw the coach take his hat off and scratch his head. He didn't look too happy.

My guy stepped up to the base, his navy blue jersey tucked neatly into his white pants. I was nervous, I have to admit. And I'm sure he was feeling a little queasy too. The pitcher let go with a fast ball and the umpire yelled, "Strike one!" The team on the field patted their gloves and grinned. Easy out was written all over their faces.

I felt the pain my guy was feeling, and I crossed my fingers and prayed. The pitcher slowly looked from side to side, checking to make sure the loaded bases were still and not in motion. He nodded to the hindcatcher and let it go, another fastball.

And then the sweetest sound I had heard in a long time, "crack," as the ball sailed across the heads of the outfielders. The loaded bases emptied and my guy began his run. The coach seemed to look my way and jumped up and down.

This was the moment I had been waiting for and yet I didn't utter a sound. I just watched him circle the bases and run on home. When he got there he looked my way and gave one ever so slight salute. I just smiled and wiped a tear away, so happy to have seen my ten-year-old son's first home run.

Ms. Hester won a book and a baseball autographed by Ken Griffey.

Day at the Ball Game
By Madeline J. Huss
Bowie, Maryland

At the age of 11, my fondest dream was to be a great baseball player. It should have been a reasonable goal to achieve.

When I was growing up, the neighborhood was filled with kids. No shortage of ready and willing players existed from which to choose up sides. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, failure appeared inevitable.

My problems were numerous. I couldn't hit the ball no matter how hard I swung. I couldn't run fast and when I played outfield, the ball always slipped through my fingers. My fellow teammates never failed to remind me of my biggest handicap: "What do you expect? You're only a girl."

When I asked to play that Saturday, Jackie Brady jeered. "You're a lousy player. Why don't you go home and play with your dollies?"

Daddy opened the screen door for me when he saw me come up the stairs. He patted my head when I told him my sad story. "Never mind," he said. "Come listen to the radio with me. The Yankees are 2-1 over the Red Sox in the third inning. The Dodgers are shellacking the Giants 7-1.

Even then when remotes and VCRs were nonexistent, Daddy managed to listen to two ball games at once. One game he tuned in on the console in the parlor, while the table model sat on the kitchen counter with yet another game on a different station.

Due to his careful tutoring, I could read the sports page with expertise. I always knew which player was leading the league with the most runs batted in.

At breakfast the following morning, Daddy asked, "What are your plans for today? Would you like to go to the ball game with me and see the Newark Bears play the Montreal Royals?"

I readily assented. A crowd had already lined up to purchase tickets by the time we arrived at the stadium on the bus.

I scarcely noticed the hot sun blazing down on us as I jumped and yelled and booed with the rest of the crowd. We munched our way through the game alternating bites of hot dogs with hot roasted peanuts, all washed down with soda pop.

After the seventh-inning stretch, our team, the Newark Bears, was trailing 4-2. I crossed my fingers and held my breath at each crack of the bat. A hard line drive sent the ball soaring toward the bleachers.

"Foul ball," someone shouted. I heard a thud as the ball bounded off the bench and landed at my feet.

"The ball. I got the ball," I shouted in delight.

With my prize clutched tightly in my hand, I watched the rest of the game in a daze. In the ninth inning, a home run by the Bears' star hitter with two men on base won the game.

As we walked down the hill toward home, I spotted Jackie Brady across the street.

He waved and ran over to us. "Where were you today?" he demanded. "Half of the kids are home sick with chicken pox. We could have used you today."

I tossed the ball into the air and caught it easily. "If you must know, I didn't stay home playing paper dollies. My dad and I went to the ball game to see the Newark Bears."

"Yes," Dad said. "And this gal here caught herself a foul ball." Jackie shook his head in amazement and, for a change, was speechless.

Ms. Huss won a book and a baseball autographed by Cal Ripkin.

Honorable Mention

Chris Whitaker, Huber Heights, Ohio

Edward Siegel, Jacksonville, Florida

Geoff Schackert, W. Hollywood, California

Leonard Rosen, Chapel Hill, North Carolina

Jerry Langguth, Cary, Illinois

Cathy Delittle, Casselberry, Florida