The Hook and The Call

Prologue: It was one of those muggy summer nights. Arena Park was dark and quiet except for one area, which was buzzing with activity: The Little League diamond. It was dusty from overuse. The rubber cleats of the players kicked up sluggish clouds that hung there, suspended in the heavy air. The ballpark lights had attracted legions of moths and June Bugs, just like they always did. The surrounding darkness, under canopies of large trees, was deep and ominous. The players in the field provided the constant chatter of encouragement to their pitcher. I was seven, too young to play, but I was there with my family to watch my older brother Larry play. At that moment, I was more interested in the large sand pile that was located down the right field line. What was it about running up and down those sand piles? I had sat down on the pile to empty my tennis shoes once more of the sand.  My sister Beth yelled to get my attention. “Larry’s batting!” I looked up in time to see him striding confidently to the plate. Man, he looked awesome in his grey pinstriped uniform. Someday, I thought.

The Hook:  “Congratulations, you’re on the Royals”

In the spring of 1962, it came to pass that all 8-year-old boys in Cape Girardeau, MO were compelled to do the following: arrive at Capaha Park’s north youth diamond, beyond the centerfield wall of the BIG FIELD, on a crisp April Saturday morning at 8 am with birth certificate, a bat and glove in tow, to register with the Minor-League Baseball Association (for ages 8-12) and in turn to try out for a team. “Did you bring a signed waiver from your parents?” It was our very first rite of spring. This was also our first opportunity to show certain adult baseball coaches that we had never heretofore met that we were worthy to be drafted to be on their teams. At last our skills, honed on sand lots and in back yards all around town, were finally put to use in organized baseball.

The coaches, these underappreciated men, many of whom did not even have kids in the program, dedicated substantial amounts of their free time away from their everyday lives and expended much energy teaching baseball, a game that they loved. Unsung heroes*, they were, no less.

I remember several things vividly about the day of the tryout: At the sign up table, we presented our birth certificates, and then we were all assigned a number. That number, written large on a sheet of typing paper was safety-pinned to the backs of our shirts, and remained there the rest of the day. The boys sized each other up, admiring new gloves, flashy new rubber cleats, and older brothers’ hand-me-down hats. My glove was a brand new Bob “Hurricane” Hazle Model. I remember standing around a lot and “fidgeting”.

After making the boys run a few sprints to “warm up” a large canvas bag of baseballs, mostly old and worn, was brought out and we paired off for some pitch and catch.  After about ten minutes of this, the men assigned us to one of three stations to test our level of skills at fielding, throwing, and hitting.

As our turns came, we were instructed to call out our number for the clipboard men to take their notes. Older players from the various teams hovered nearby with their team T-shirts and hats, checking out the rookies. The more confident ones jumped in to help the men with the tryout. There were coaches that stationed themselves at strategic spots around the field writing notes as we tried out. We were constantly reminded by the men to “show some hustle”. We were also in turn encouraged when we tried too hard and made mistakes. I remember some kid kicking at the dirt after booting a grounder. Hey that looked pretty cool, and so we tried it also. Of course it was all about looking cool.

When it came my turn to bat, I was a bundle of nerves. It was late in the day, and we were all getting tired and hungry. I think I swung at every pitch, and only connected once, a foul to the right side, while breaking the bat. It ended up near the big shade tree down the right field line. I fretted about the broken bat (it wasn’t mine) and got yelled at: “Next time, watch the trademark, son!”

I remember some of the Minor League team names: Marlins, Royals, Chiefs, Bisons, Pirates, Red Wings, Owls, Orioles, Eagles, others? I got the call from Manager John Schade a few days later. I was a Royal. New T-shirts and bright red hats with a white R stitched on it. My hat would soon have a hand-squeezed “crown” just like the rest of my teammates.

OK baseball, you’ve got me. I’m hooked.

The Call

After spending my first season on the Royals in Cape’s minor leagues (I was 8 in an 8-12 yr. old league), I was content to play for them again the next summer. Most of my classmates said they were doing the same. The alternative was to try to ‘move up’ to the more prestigious Little League, which was ostensibly for the more ‘serious’ players.  There were no guarantees that you would be selected at the tryout, anyway.

Memories of my first year in organized baseball were that I played the game in utter mediocrity, although I think our team was pretty good.  Nothing that I would call a personal accomplishment stands out in my memory. I do have one vivid visual image of that season, however. This happened more than once: I am on deck, watching my friend and teammate Mike Uhls getting hit by a pitch squarely in the back, and then this image of him, with his body contorted in pain; eyes closed, frozen in this grotesque pose, followed by a painful, red-faced trot to first base. Because I witnessed this from very close range, I think I spent most of my at-bats that year trying to avoid getting beaned. I wasn’t about to get beaned. I am also fairly certain that I was not productive, although my coaches, Corky Weiss, and John Schade were dedicated and supportive.

In fact, when the tryout was announced for the Little Leagues (9-12 yr. old), I, like many of my close friends, passed on the opportunity…..that is, until I got THE CALL.

I remember that I was watching TV, and the phone rang. I ignored it until I heard my sister Beth say: “Randy, it’s for you. It sounds like a grown man.” Huh?

“Um, hello?”

“Randy, this is Lloyd Slinkard, manager of the Little League Yankees. I am calling to see if you wanted to play on our team this year”.

“Uh, but I didn’t try out for Little League.”

“I know, but you can still play for us if you want.”

“Do I get a uniform?” (Minor League wore T-shirts and blue jeans)

“Well…..yes, you get to wear a uniform.”

“Where are the uniforms?”

“Well, right now they are in my basement, in my house.”

“OK, I’ll play. So, when do we get our uniforms?”

“I’ll distribute the uniforms sometime before our first game.” I am sure my obsession with the uniforms made Mr. Slinkard wonder about my reasons for agreeing to play on the Yankees.

All of a sudden, I was a Yankee. But what just happened? Wait a minute, this is the same team my older brother Larry had played on in years past, and his coach was indeed the same—Lloyd Slinkard. Hmmm. Ok, I get it now. Larry was a stud in Little League. He was a good 1/3 larger than some of the players and had hit a dozen home runs when he was eleven. He was scary to bat against. Larry was so good that Mr. Slinkard would take a chance on his little brother, sight unseen. Key question: What would Mr. Slinkard think when he sees I am an average sized nine-year old, and he comes to know that I have “happy feet” and don’t like to get hit by the pitch? I will worry about that later, because at least I will get to wear the uniform.

My first season in Little League, I played the minimum required amount each game, which was two innings in the field, and at least one at-bat. I remember striking out or walking a lot against twelve-year-old pitchers throwing heat. Since I am controlling the narrative here, let’s be kind and just say I was a ‘late bloomer’.  One Saturday afternoon, against the Red Sox I did have a very memorable at-bat against Tommy Taylor in which I hit a routine pop-up that Frank Kinder easily caught at second base for an out. I bragged about that for weeks.

This is a few years later, my 12-year-old self as a Yankee. My obsession with the uniforms continued. Mom would have my flannel uniform cleaned and my jersey pressed so that I could usually be fully dressed at noon for a five o’clock game.

*The unsung heroes:  Special thanks to these men, all of my baseball coaches and managers for instilling a life-long love for this game: Corky Weiss, John Schade, Lloyd Slinkard, Alfred “Casey” Ashby, Terry Ashby, Roger Suedekum, Jerry Dewrock, Doc Yallaly, Leon Brinkopf, Paul Kitchen, Dale Meier, Jess Bolen, Theo de Hoyos, and Bob Finley. Also, there are these senior baseball guys still getting it done: Sandy Cross, John Kaag, Fran Podraza, Carroll “Woody” Wood, and Dan Schindler.