The Pecan Park Eagle

Joe Hunter Field, Coastal Bend College, Beeville, Texas

My two earliest memories feature my dad. The first dates all the way back to 1939, when, at tops,  I was maybe eighteen months old. It is quite brief. My uncle, who was only nine years older than me, had climbed a tree in the back yard of my grandparents’ house in San Antonio. Uncle Albert was my mom’s youngest of three brothers. He had slipped and was hanging by the neck from a limb fork and moaning loudly. I can still see and hear the frightening sight and sound of him dangling by his neck in the sky as my memory stands me again in the yard to only watch.

Even as I “recall’ these images for this written recollection, I am confronted again with the reality that I had no way of really assessing the full meaning of everything my toddler senses were taking in. I think I saw that my uncle was in trouble and that my dad had come to rescue him, but that may have just been the explanation my maturing mind added later to the visceral experience.

All I know for sure is, I can still see my dad tearing his shoes off as he races out the back door and up the tree to bring my uncle down. I have a brief picture of Dad carrying poor Uncle Albert across the yard and into the house. Then everything fades to black.

The second earliest clear memory is of baseball. With later help from Mom and Dad, I was able to pin this one down to the later spring or summer of 1940. That would have put me close to the 2 1/2 year old age.

Dad is playing right field for the Beeville town ball team. Retired major leaguer Curt Walker is playing center field. I don’t have any of those facts available to me at the time. All I know for sure  is that Mom and and I are sitting in the stands at the old Bee County (TX) Fairgrounds Park, and given what I now know about the game of baseball, we were situated down the rignt field side of things because there was Dad down there on the near field in front of us, wearing his gray Beeville uniform with the dark blue legging socks and dark cap.

This memory too is very brief. Mom is sitting. I am walking the wooden planks of the mainly empty seats. It is night. Bugs are flying all around the arc lights. The players make a lot of chatter on the field. Mom keeps calling my name. When she catches my eye, she points to Dad in the field, as if to say, “watch what’s going on.”

When I look at Dad, I don’t see much going on. Dad either has his hands on his hips or his knees. At times, he is sort of hunched over, leaning forward, looking in at something.

When Dad comes to bat, I hear another Beeville player yelling, “C’mon, Bill! You’re the baby, Bill! You can do it, Babe!” I have no idea what any of that encouragement means, but I do see Dad hit the ball and run to first base, where he stops. I don’t know at the time why he ran, or where he ended up, or whar it all meant, but I saw it happen. And I did like the fact that people in the stands were clapping because of something my dad did.

Later, a ball is hit to Dad in right field. He catches it on one bounce and throws it into second base. I have only the visual memory of what he did. Why he handled things in that way only made  sense as years passed and I learned more about baseball  from personal experience. At any rate, this memory also faded to black, just as soon as Dad threw the ball into the infield ahead of the runner. I never even knew who won the game and Dad couldn’t remember either – or, at least, said he didn’t.

The old photograph of Hunter Field just set me off on this track this morning. It reminded me of all those times my buddies and teammates at St. Christopher’s in Houston walked over to nearby Glenbrook Golf Course Field to practice and play our parochial school games in the springs of 1951 and 1952.

I got to be a Grade AAAA  skywatcher around that time, always looking out for dark clouds that  might threaten our ability to play. I can still feel the shuffle of shells under our feet as we crossed the little creek bridge and made our way off to the left and the short walk/jog down to the backstop for after school baseball. What an absolutely soul-soaring memory that is, even now.

To have played baseball at all as a kid grew into the great joy of my life, as it did for so many others of you. Sometimes, like last night, I even dream that I’m back there again, playing ball with all the ability I thought I had. That kind of dreaming makes waking up a bittersweet thing. At least, last night’s dream helped me to write this column for Saturday. I had a wonderful time back then, folks. Now, if only I can get back there tonight, I’ll take another ticket on the Dreamland Clipper for sure.

Those were the days, my friend. We thought they’d never end.

Tags: Baseball

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