Where I First Learned to Love the Game

Abstract

Where I First Learned to Love the Game Tim Wendel (bio) Somehow Dad cobbled together enough money to buy a modest three-bedroom house with an overgrown yard and bandstand-like gazebo in Olcott, New York, (population two thousand during the summer months). It was a few blocks from the yacht club and the stone-pebble beach near the harbor piers. To the delight of us kids, it was around the corner from George’s Market, which offered a fantasy land of such delicacies as Bazooka Joe bubble gum, Slim Jim sticks and Mrs. Paul’s fruit pies. For kids who had grown up in the country, miles away from the nearest town, Olcott was a bustling metropolis. The village lies on the southern shore of Lake Ontario, thirty-five miles east of Niagara Falls. We had moved there for the summer months so my Dad could sail, both racing and family cruises, sometimes going forty miles across the big lake to Toronto, Canada. Despite its small size, Olcott offered other pursuits, which I soon discovered. To this day I’m not sure why one day I decided to bike up West Main Street, past Jackson Street, turning right on Crescent Heights, which soon became Clinton Street and then West Bluff. The narrow street ran along lake shore, flanked by summer cottages and a few ornate year-round establishments. That first day up here, I was pedaling along the West Bluff when I heard kids yelling and cheering. As I drew closer, I realized it was infield chatter, only heard on a ball diamond. Rolling out to my left, in a sunken field hard by an orchard of dwarf apple trees, kids were playing softball. The field featured plenty of quirks and idiosyncrasies. Home plate had been set up in the far corner, not far from the first row of fruit trees, with the infield made up of weathered bases. Just beyond that regular configuration, left field rose on an incline all the way up the street, where I watched astride my yellow Schwinn bike. Center field was regulation enough, before it rolled downward to the right, falling away all together with a half-foot drop-off that marked some kind of property line. As I watched, one of the older boys, a kid with muscular arms and hair almost as dark as mine, turned nicely on a pitch, pulling it up the left-field hill, toward me. The [End Page 139] infielders watched it soar over their heads and the shortstop, the tallest on the opposing team, ran only a few steps up the hill before letting the ball hit and roll back to him. By deploying such local knowledge, he held the batter to a long single. After three outs, as they changed sides, somebody noticed me up on the street. “You want to play?” somebody shouted. “I don’t have my glove,” I replied. “You can borrow one. C’mon.” I walked my bike down the hill and laid it in the grass beside the other wheels spread far up from the third-base line. “I’m Berg,” said the kid with dark hair about my size. “That’s Danny Clogston and his little brother. And those are the Stein boys out in the field. Go with them. They’re getting killed today.” Somebody tossed me a glove and I pulled it over my left hand, trying to smooth out the pocket so it felt more comfortable, and soon enough everything fell into the rhythm of another game. The next day I convinced my brother Chris to tag along with me. Within the week we were regulars, playing ball on the West Bluff. After dinner, the adults set up lawn chairs on the side of the street and watched our titanic struggles as dusk fell. Even Dad sometimes stopped by on the pretense of making sure we got home okay. So began a string of summers that continued into my late teens, when I left home for good to attend college. Even as we grew older and landed such jobs as lifeguard at the local pool, counselor for the day campers, mowing lawns and painting houses under...