Baseball games at the Little League field. I'd get on my bike and ride the two miles or so to the Little League fields. I'd pass the tract houses with their similar differences and come to the gates of the piece of undeveloped property at the end of the road where two little league fields, complete with backstop, bleachers, and wooden fences sat as sentinels waiting for the games to begin.
When I got to the gates it became more difficult to ride my bike through the ruts and gravel of the parking lot. I'd make my way past the grandstand to the snack bar and ask the question, "Do you have anyone to announce or keep score yet?" While the pay was the same to work in the snack shack--25 cents worth of whatever I wanted , the prestige was more in the booth behind home plate where I could announce the players and occasionally give some commentary or even keep score.
I'd perch on a bench behind chain link fence behind the plate where I could see how inconsistent the calls from the umpire actually were. I couldn't say a thing. I'd turn to my partner and widen my eyes or shake my head. All the commentary that was needed.
I loved to sit in the aerie and watch the game. Most often I would keep official score for the game. I didn't mind the tedious nature of marking the balls and strikes and sitting and observing. I didn't worry about saying the wrong thing or having laughter erupt from the bleachers when an errant commentary filtered through the microphone. I actually found it intimidating, though powerful, to have the microphone in front of me. And in those times, I announced the names loudly, listening to my voice echo throughout the ballpark.
From up in the scoring box, six feet above the field, I easily observed the crowd. Whole families cheered on their players. Sometimes the crowded shouted with excitement or grew silent as if a single entity. Up there I could see how straight the chalk lines were and see that the right fielder concentrated more than I thought he would. Little escaped me. The sights, the sounds, the smells of the ballpark.
Around the outfield fence advertisements of sponsor's were posted. Legend had it that if you hit a home run over a particular advertiser, you'd get something from them. All eyes focused when the power hitters came to bat, hoping to see one of them knock a homer over the dead center field sign--Baskin Robbins.
If I couldn't work in the broadcast booth where I could borrow phrases from Vin Sculley from time to time, I worked the scoreboard. I did not want to ever work in the snack shack, stuck inside for the whole game! To work the scoreboard I'd hang out on the other side of the centerfield fence and climb up to the catwalk on the scoreboard to put up runs for the inning. Standing in center field and working the scoreboard was not prestigious at all. In fact, it was isolated. Besides being so far from the action, there was no one to talk with, and it was often hot, hot, hot. Sometimes, if the scoreboard was all that was available, I'd work half the game and then go to the snack shack and tell them I needed to leave. Usually, my pay was then 10 cents worth of candy. My choices were sheets of Dots and some Lick 'em Aid. 10 cents was not enough for a chocolate bar too.
Whenever I think of being at the baseball field and keeping score, I smile. I loved watching the guys play. Wishing I could be out there with them like I was in pick up games at the park. But, I felt important because I felt like I was watching over them. The sky was always blue there, the grass was always green, the clouds were always white and puffy. At least that's how it was in my memories. And me? I was queen of the world. No other girls allowed. I was the queen of baseball. A diamond was this girl's best friend.
**not too messy for a first draft. I recognize a few clean revisions would be helpful---getting rid of all of the conditional verbs, for instance. I think changing it all to present tense would be of benefit as well. And yes, what a difference in the world to be able to buy all of that candy for 25 cents!
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