The sounds of baseball are still there. Let’s make sure we never lose our wooden bats.
Baseball was always a flat-out all five sensory experience for many of us sandlot kids back in the day. The from the blurring, streaming sight of baseballs flying through the air at differential heights, speeds, and trajectories, from the smell of horsehide game balls and soft-calf leather gloves and the oil we put on them, and the always homey aroma of freshly cut grass and incoming rain, it was all part of the summer everyday on the field.
The taste of salty sweat rolling down our faces and the quenching swigs of tap water, straight from the nozzle on the side of Mrs. McGee’s house, were both parts of the day, as was the sugary taste bud delight of Double Bubble Gum. “DB” always started as a gooey sweet chaw, ending up hours later as a forgotten, tasteless wad that ached the jaw after a hard-chewing, but mostly unconscious morning as our game chaw of choice.
And touch loomed heavy in the day. From the great solid vibes that came from putting the sweet spot of the bat on the long ball to the cold morning sting that came too often from early spring foul ball contact, we felt them all, including crashes with the turf and each other and all the stubbed toes and sore arms that we just had to play through quietly as thought they never happened.
Today I think I miss the close-up sound the most. As an outfielder, the sound of a wooden bat making contact with a horsehide baseball gave off all kinds of very different sonar messages to the body on where to run and, sometimes, when to turn around in the pursuit of long fly balls.We didn’t have to deal with that metal bat one-note pinging sound that says the same unhelpful thing about all stricken baseballs” “The ball has been hit. You figure out whether to run in or go deep. You’re on your own.”
Not in the wooden bat day, we weren’t. We were never on our own in those first few determining steps. All we had to do was listen and then let our body reflexes kick in to action as our first sensory guides to our fielder-reactive motion.
My favorite sound imagery from the field is of the sacrifice bunt of a runner to second that results in a disputed call at first:
MUMBLE! HOT DOGS! RUMBLE! BEER! As batter Jones squares to bunt, 3rd baseman Brown inches forward to come in for a play. The visual plays out to the sounds of detached crowd murmurs and vendor calls.
PLUNK! Jones drops down a perfect bunt to the left side. It’s only going a distance of some 12-15 feet, but it has found the line dirt with a heavy counter-clockwise spin. It may be a hit, but will it stay fair?
CLUMP! CLUMP! CLUMP! 3rd baseman Brown races in, eyeing the ball, assessing the spin, and deciding a must-play-the-ball situation is in order.
CLIP! CLIP! CLIP! Righty-hitting runner Jones beats a blazing beat path, well on is way to first.
WHISH! Seizing the moment, Fielder Brown grabs the spinning fair bunt from the dirt with his bare right hand and gives it a mighty sideways heave to first that is more remindful of ancient hurler Kent Tekulve on one his best Pirate days than any Brooks Robinson play we’ve every seen or heard.
.SPLAT! Fielder Brown’s mad throw lands in 1st baseman Smith’s mitt.
SQUISH! One nanosecond later, runner Jones’s foot crosses the bag.
SAFE! Umpire Don Denkinger makes his call!
DAMN! All hell breaks loose from the team in the field.
And we probably could have seen the whole thing unfolding with our eyes closed with the help of a few sounds in play as our guides.
Houston, Baseball, & Other Musings.
The Pecan Park Eagle 