Playing the Field: Becoming an All American

By Sonny

Whenever League of Th eir Own is shown the questions begin. After so many years, I felt the public was entitled to answers although some players accused me of destroying memory of the league.

Following are questions. Was the movie the real thing? Do the managers do this? Were there many gays? Some came in straight and left gay!

There were broken love affairs. And, a couple very interesting chaperones who calmed very emotional players. Certain ones stopped confession or would look away when passing their church.

There were rough and tumble players. One would huddle down, at far end of dugout, and file her one inch metal spikes to a fine edge.

There were a couple swingers who rushed to waiting cabs when games ended. Several who became quite drunk! I was stuck with a drunken roommate. She eventually moved but not soon enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452074306

Sonny

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Playing The Field

Becoming An All American

Sonny

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 Sonny. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse     5/9/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7428-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7429-0 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7430-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913198

Printed in the United States of America

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CREDITS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CREDITS

This book is dedicated to my Father and my Grandfather for their faith in my pitching ability and for their unwavering pride in my accomplishments.

Special credit goes to Karen for the ability to pull everything together from a jumble of paragraphs and ideas. To Mary, her partner, for moral support during the most troubling moments.

And, to all the other, who continued in their special way. They know who they are so I won’t name them.

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Sonny Berger-age 15

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CHAPTER 1

The game wasn’t scheduled to start ‘til 7:00 p.m. but by 5:00 p.m. the lines were forming behind the ticket office. This would be a sellout. Busloads of soldiers from a nearby base swept through and raced for a seat in the grandstand. It was time for us to play the All Stars. I walked slowly to the mound, took the rosin bag, tapped it lightly in my glove, and after the usual warm-up pitches I nodded to the umpire that I was ready. Babe trotted out to me, Nosy’s leadoff. Don’t give her a walk even if she crowds the plate. The ump is wise to her and he’ll give us the break.

I couldn’t believe that their first batter would bunt. The ball spun crazily, and we watched. Then Babe picked it up but the runner beat the throw to first base. Before I stepped back onto the mound, she stole 2nd.

The next hitter was Fanny. Among their players she was the most dangerous and unpredictable. She waited till the count was 3-2. I decided to bear down. She did a half-swing punch and the ball fell behind Dottie. Nosy raced home as Dottie’s throw pulled Babe out of position and she tagged the air. They were ahead and a roar came from the All Stars’ fans. The next few innings turned into a pitchers battle, three up and three down.

Vicky stood at the plate and the umpire called her out on three perfect strikes. The side was retired but they were ahead with one more inning to go. Our last turn at bat was coming up and we had to do something fast or else the series would belong to the All Stars.

While I was sitting on the bench in the dugout waiting for their pitcher to warm up, and our turn at bat to start, I started to think back on how my love and obsession with the game of softball started.

CHAPTER 2

Mama had prepared a steak for me just like Papa’s, but I had to finish it before I could have my surprise. Papa reached under the table and handed me a large box that I tore open without hesitation. It was a Rawlings baseball glove. I was 12 and finally getting what I’d wanted for as long as I could remember. My first glove! The leather smelled so good that I held it close to my nose for a few seconds before pounding a pocket into it.

From that moment, Softball became a consuming passion. Nothing else mattered. I nailed a coffee can on the garage door and paced off the proper pitching distance with a hole for my foot in the soft asphalt driveway for my mound.

Hour after hour, day after day I’d pitch at the can then run forward to retrieve the ball and then pitch again. The day I threw the ball through the second floor bedroom window shattering the glass, Papa decided I needed a catcher since it was obvious I was determined to become a pitcher.

A few days later my dream came true. Papa had hired Harvey Brown, who was a year or two older than me, to catch for me. I could hardly wait for the day and began dreaming of being a pro with my own catcher. A much-needed feeling of confidence swept over me. I kept telling myself over and over again, who needs friends? Sooner or later they die whereas Softball would always be there for me.

There were probably two reasons that I buried myself in softball, one was the loss of my best friend, Cecelia, the other was that our local softball team brought out the whole community and helped us all forget, for a couple of hours anyway, the poor economy.

In fact, I was at the ballpark with Mama and Papa while Cecelia met her tragic death. I awakened early on the fourth and raced outside to shoot off some firecrackers. Then I walked into town to watch the preparations for the parade. A gaudily painted bus moved slowly to position itself at the head of the parade. A police car, Lover on his Harley, some riders on horseback, and the high school band would follow.

One of the horses bolted at the blast of a horn coming from the school band and plunged into the bass drum. A majorette chased the frightened animal and promptly fell into freshly dropped manure and began screaming as she tore at her uniform, which only made it worse.

I laughed and wished Cecelia was here to enjoy it. This was one of our favorite events; and it just wasn’t like her. Did her crazy mother punish her again? My imagination ran wild with worry.

When the parade started, I ran to Drigger’s station where my parents were already waiting. In spite of my protests to wait for Cecelia just a little longer, we were soon on our way to the baseball field.

The cars moved so slowly that I wondered if we’d get there on time. This was the most publicized event in Homestead’s history and I could see a line of cars on the Dixie Highway coming from Miami.

Amidst much yelling and blowing of horns, we finally reached the field. I recognized the school janitor standing at the entrance, waiting for contributions. When our car stopped he reached through the window and I pulled away from that toothy, grinning face. At school he always touched us girls. Mama said he was just being friendly. Her mind had no room for anything that might upset it. I wished Papa would drive faster so we’d be parked and I could look around for Cecelia.

It seemed an eternity, but we were finally there! I hurried towards the grandstand with Mama and Papa right behind me. Papa grabbed my arm and directed me to where one of his patients was waving at us. Thank goodness the man had saved us seats; there were only a few left.

I scanned the stands and the field for Cecelia. I just knew something was wrong, but Mama insisted that once again I was worrying too much. Mama was usually the worrier in the family. I sat there and tried to think of other things.

I looked beyond the outfield where I knew the black men were crouching behind a row of trees to watch the game. If they were lucky, a fly ball would get away and they’d have a real ball for their own baseball games.

The only black folks allowed inside the ballpark were Edna Brown and her sister Eva who did the cooking, and old Goober who sold peanuts. Even though they were there working, they had to be careful. The Chief and his buddies were always looking for an excuse to cause trouble. One year the Chief threw Edna in jail overnight because she looked him in the eye when she served him his plate offish. Still. The sisters came each Fourth of July to work.

My thoughts returned to Cecelia, and I started looking for her again. Mama turned around to reassure me, Perhaps her mother wanted her to go to the cemetery with her.

Mama, she would have said something. We always go to the games together. I know honey, but then there must be some good reason. Maybe she’ll come later. Now, please stop worrying and enjoy the game.

I saw Mama look at Papa and knew she was just as concerned and puzzled by my friend’s absence as I was. They knew Mrs. Jones was unstable, as did everyone else in town. Dr. Smith had put her on medication, but she complained that it was against her religion and stopped taking it.

Mrs. Jones’s neighbors had gossiped about the way she had treated Cecelia since the awful accident. Her husband had been speeding and was hit broadside by a truck. It was hours later before the car was discovered in a ditch. Both Mr. Jones and their eldest daughter Kathryn were dead. No one was ever charged.

Five years previous to the accident, their only son had eaten a green mango and gone into convulsions and died. Dr. Smith tried to tell Mrs. Jones that the green mango wasn’t the cause of the boy’s death, that meningitis had killed her son. But she only believed what she read in the Bible. Since I had never read the Bible I couldn’t say what it said about green mangos, but I stayed away from them just in case. Mrs. Jones belonged in Chattahoochee, the state mental hospital but Dr. Smith just didn’t have the nerve to commit her.

I surveyed the perimeter of the outfield, which was now rimmed with cars. People were sitting on fenders and bumpers, calling out to each other. They started whistling when the Oklahoma bus pulled onto the field.

Homestead was one of those small southern towns that refused to change. White columns, resembling giant candles, bordered Main Street and convinced folks they lived in a city. It was July 3rd, 1932 and flags were strung like giant spider webs from every building and post. This year’s celebration promised to be very special. Instead of pickup trucks, loaded with white-sheeted Klansmen and their wives, on their way to the quarters to beat up some black men, fire hose them as entertainment. Pictures and write-ups had been in every newspaper from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West, about a celebrated men’s softball team, the Oklahoma All Stars, with an undefeated pitcher called Cannonball Bailey. No one could believe he had a four man team.

Everyone watched as the four uniformed players stepped onto the field, following their manager. He was a stocky middle-aged man and was smoking a large cigar. He casually dumped a bag of bats, along with still-boxed softballs, onto the ground in front of their bench. Homestead locals eyed them enviously.

The Oklahoma players looked professional in their green satin baseball pants, red trimmed shirts and matching striped stockings. Red satin baseball caps completed their uniforms. By comparison I thought the locals looked pathetic in their white duck trousers and yellowed tee-shirts.

The Homestead Champions glanced around enviously and looked worried. Then they all started to grin, how could four players be any competition? The hand clapping, whistles and cheers as they trotted onto the field made them feel even better. They laughed and threw the ball around as if they were the pros.

I hoped that the Oklahoma team wouldn’t end up being like the Kelsey City Bobcats. The Bobcats were from a small town north of Pompano, ninety miles north of Homestead. When they came to play our locals we didn’t know what to expect. They had been touted as a tough semi-pro team, but the locals defeated them 12-1. I listened to the conversation in the stands as the Oklahoma manager took in as many bets as possible. The local gamblers laughed at the confidence he had in four players. I could see it in his eyes, he was about to make a lot of money off these men. Of course, they would win.

Excitement filled the air, the bleachers were overflowing. This would be the most unusual game ever witnessed in Homestead.

Dummy, who was going to be the umpire for the game, watched the visitors work out. Their manager whipped the fungo, a bat used for practice and training purposes, driving vicious line drives and flies to his only outfielder. The outfielder wasn’t missing a one. Dummy smiled at the thought of what the locals faced.

So many cars lined up at the entrance that lots of them were forced to back out and park outside. Spectators were walking through the gates to watch the game, which by now allowed for standing room only.

The school janitor was sitting in the stands not worrying about who paid. Besides, the game was about to begin.

Dummy took his position behind the catcher, adjusted his mask and waved Hickey Tribe into the box. Hickey took a few warm-up swings and stepped up to the plate.

Cannonball, their pitcher, threw his left leg high in the air. His arm wind-milled several times and the ball whizzed over the plate hitting the catcher’s mitt with a thud. He was magical. Hickey stared at the catcher in shock. Dummy’s right arm shot up. Strike one!

The next pitch came under Cannonball’s leg. Strike Two! The crowd went wild. Horns began blowing and the crowd cheered! Hickey was not a popular player to begin with, and when he threatened the pitcher with his bat he was booed.

Cannonball grinned and called to Hickey loud enough for everyone to hear, Here’s one you can hit. He wind milled several times and threw a changeup. Dummy moved from side to side trying to follow the ball’s strange flight. Hickey swung at the ball as if it were some kind of elusive bug determined to dodge his bat. The ball dropped into the catcher’s mitt. Strike Three!

Hickey was so mad and frustrated that he hurled his bat at the pitcher. The crowd booed him again and began cheering for the visitors. Dummy shook his fist at Hickey and waved him off the field. Dummy was a mute and no one argued with him.

What we didn’t know was that as we watched the game Cecelia’s mom had lost her temper and poor Cecelia never had a chance. She tried hiding in the closet, but it was impossible to get away. She screamed as the strap came down again and again on her skinny legs. Tears rolled down her pale freckled face. As her mother grabbed her red braid and threw her to the floor. Even if the next-door neighbors hadn’t gone to the game, no one would respond to her cries for help, they never helped her.

I wish you’d have died instead of your sister, her mother screamed! You’re just like your father, even look like him! Cecelia broke loose again and tried to make it out the front door, but her mother knocked her down again. A short time later, neighbors saw Mrs. Jones push a hysterical Cecelia into their yellow Hudson and speed up the road, ignoring the honks of other cars. No one had ever seen her so angry.

The Hudson paused at the stop sign at Burton’s corner. Cecelia tried to jump out of the car but her mother yanked her inside by her hair. Minutes later, the Hudson was on the old drive, heading for the cemetery.

Just a few miles north, Herman Thomas shifted gears on his loaded gravel truck, then double clutched as he headed away from the gravel pit. He then paused to light a Camel taking a deep drag and squinted into the blinding sun exhaling the smoke. He pulled onto the road that led towards Homestead. Glancing at his watch, Herman stepped on the gas as he wanted to see a little of the game after his delivery. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be working on a holiday, but the boss had promised him a bonus and he needed the extra cash.

Herman whistled as he bounced along the road. He slowed at the corner, looked around, and was surprised to