That Summer of ’71

The Summer of 1971.  A couple of innocent months that will be forever etched into my memory as tightly as the 108 stitches on a baseball.  A short period in my life that will always be fondly recalled as “That” Summer of ‘71.  That was the year when a ragamuffin baseball team in Belgreen, Alabama transformed a routine summer into a kaleidoscope of memories that are as vivid as if it was yesterday.  That summer was the last summer that I got to play, just simply play.  A job, my senior year in high school, courtship, college and work would be the future that followed that summer.  It has been a grand future, which is now my past and present, and that Summer of ’71 was a great sendoff.

Baseball is my favorite sport, hands down.  I love it.  I loved to play it as a youngster.  I loved collecting the cards, many of which I still have today.  I loved to read the box scores every day in the sports section of the local paper.  I could give you the names of the entire roster for my beloved Dodgers, as well as their batting averages.  I could also name the starting lineup for every other team in both the National and American leagues.  I loved sitting up at all hours of the night listening to games and waiting for scores of the Dodger games.  Many nights I was tuned in well past midnight, but it was worth it.  In later years, I thought I had unearthed the greatest treasure known to broadcasting when my radio dial found Bob Costas doing the late night show on clear channel KMOX in St. Louis.  I had no idea he would later become a baseball and sports icon, but I did know that the way he handled scores and recaps of the game was well worth the loss of sleep.

Oh, and did I mention that my honeymoon involved watching my first major league game.  My wife claims I was wide-eyed when I stepped out of the concourse of the old Atlanta-Fulton County stadium and saw what a real major league field looked like.  As a matter of fact, a manicured baseball diamond is still a work of art in my book.

I still watch baseball today and follow my Dodgers on television and radio, or on a Twitter feed when I don’t have any other options.  I have complained, critiqued, and celebrated a team that last won the World Series in 1988.  That was the year of the magical Kirk Gibson home run and the season of Orel Hershiser’s record breaking 59 inning scoreless streak (previously held by Don Drysdale, another Dodger hero).  Hershiser is now a top-notch broadcaster for the Dodgers, and I’ve forgiven him for the short time he wore a Giants uniform.

When it comes to baseball, I am an admitted traditionalist.  I hate instant replays, infield shifts and gimmicky uniforms.  And, I have nothing but disdain for the designated hitter rule.  I also don’t understand the need to use five pitchers in a game when the Drysdales and Sandy Koufaxes and Bob Gibsons of my youth knew how to finish games without a reliever.  But the game changes, and despite the fact that this curmudgeon does not like the changes, I still love the game.  My love with the Dodgers and baseball began in 1963 when the Dodgers swept the hated Yankees in the World Series.  Over the years, through good and bad, I have loved the Dodgers and I’ve  loved baseball.  It has been, and remains an important part of my life.  And without a doubt, that Summer of 71 was my “Field of Dreams” experience and cemented my love for the game.

Speaking of that season, I had lunch some time back with Gary Williams, who was best man at my wedding more than 45 years ago.  Our friendship started that summer and though graduation, family and careers sent us in separate directions, I think of Gary often.  He was hands down the best high school baseball player I had ever seen.  He was also an outstanding high school basketball player.  His baseball career never materialized, but he did excel in coaching and education, which is probably more important.  Gary was a slugger, who rarely failed to put the ball into play.  He was our catcher, and I thought he was the second coming of Johnny Bench.  He was a fireball pitcher, and when Gary took the mound, I got to catch.  That’s still my favorite position, although when I try to catch for my grandson to practice his pitching, my knees and hamstrings remind me that this is a game for young men and boys.

I moved from outfield to shortstop because I couldn’t catch a fly ball.  I violated the first rule of playing the outfield, and instinctively ran in on every ball, only to see it sail over my head.  Don Cox was our shortstop and one of the smoothest infielders I ever saw.  But my ineptitude in the outfield required Don to move to third base for many of the games.  He was and remains a gentleman and was as good a third baseman as he was a shortstop.  I still joke that I beat him out at shortstop, but he and everyone else knows that’s not true.

The only good thing I’ll say is that, at shortstop, I was generally able to field the ball, although the pop flies still gave me trouble.  But fielding the ball is only half the battle.  My throws to first were always an adventure.  I tried to throw overhand.  Those went into the dirt.  I tried to flip it with a side spin like I thought Don Kessinger and Gene Alley did it (you old-timers will remember these guys).  Those throws went to the dugout or to right field.  Thankfully, Bobby Hargett was a good first baseman and bailed me out on more than one occasion.

That Summer of ’71 marked my first attempt at chewing tobacco.  Several of the guys were chewers, and it was common in the Major Leagues, so why not.  (Of course we know today that the chewing of tobacco created a higher cancer risk.  But in those days we didn’t.)  In my case, I didn’t get sick on the tobacco. I got sick on the smell from the pouch and it never made it to my mouth.

Things were pretty simple back then.  If a guy showed up with a Mountain Dew, we’d pass it around.  No one got sick from drinking after a teammate.  No one died.  We’d share stories about life, girls and the future, although we knew almost nothing about any of those.

Practice was sometimes followed by a few of us heading down to Horseshoe Bend for a time of swimming and escaping the hot summer heat.  Of course, I was the only non-swimmer in the group, but at that age, danger is a word we didn’t know.  But, during a time of horseplay, I was thrown into the water and almost drowned.  I may share more about that someday, but suffice it to say I will be eternally grateful to Ben Nelson who located me and pulled me by my hair to safety.

We had ten players to show on a good day and maybe eleven when everyone was there.  On at least one occasion, we had to go and wake up one of our pitchers and drag him out of bed just to have nine guys to list on the lineup card.  And occasionally, we’d draft a guy who happened to be hanging around to be able to field a team.

And we won a lot of games.  We were able to take out the city school team twice that year, scoring lots of runs against a pretty good high school pitcher.  But our nemesis was a team from the little town of Hackleburg.  They beat us twice and I didn’t help matters when I missed the coaches sign to take a pitch.  Unfortunately, I lined into a double play that ended our rally and contributed to a close loss.  But, I’m still convinced, based on his facial hair, that their first baseman was several years removed from his last high school class.  That’s probably not fair, but it makes the losses more palatable.

And then there was the time I slid into home trying to duplicate the infamous play of the 1970 All-Star game when Pete Rose crashed into catcher Ray Fosse (fracturing and separating his shoulder and diminishing Fosse’s promising career).  In my case, it was obviously much less serious.  As I stretched my hand across home plate, I looked up and asked the umpire, “Did he drop the ball?”  “Nope.  You’re out”.  Not only was I out, but I also had broken my left arm.  I didn’t know it at the time, so I pitched two innings with broken arm.  Fortunately, I’m a righty.  The doctor fixed me up with a beautiful red, white and blue cast that served me well, even after I modified it so that I could earn spending money by hauling hay.

The call of school in the fall ended that memorable summer.  Since Belgreen was such a small school, I was still in touch with my teammates on a daily basis.  But it wasn’t the same.  We all had to move on from common goals and a summer of days spent together, to living our own lives.  And those lives, over time, took us in different directions.

Those kinds of experiences are rare.  They come and they go and life goes on.  But the memories never leave you.  The conversations still resurface, the emotion still revisits, the laughter still returns from time to time.  And paths still cross with some of those on the team.  Bobby and Ben are no longer with us, but their faces and voices remain as vivid as ever when I reminisce about that Summer of ’71.

Memories are often bittersweet.  But as Thomas Wolfe wrote, “You can’t go home again,” or at least back to a time and place and find it the same as you remembered it.  I’m sure that Summer of ’71 had some bad days.  I’m sure the nostalgia doesn’t completely reflect the events as they actually occurred.  But I’m convinced that most of it was good.  And I’m thankful for the memories and every one of those Belgreen Boys of Summer that made it happen.  And I hope that their memories are as wonderful as mine.

Thank you, guys.  Thank you for that Summer of ’71.