The Letter

Prologue:

Fuzzball…..the name rolls off the tongue quite nicely. Like many games, my first exposure to fuzzball was by watching. I can remember shyly standing behind the screen at the college tennis courts next to Cheney Hall watching the older guys (demigods to us) like my brother Larry, Terry Ashby, Steve Mosley, Al Kesterson, John Brandt, R C Grossheider, and others. We were highly impressionable, and were especially in awe of the satisfying sizzling sound that a tennis ball made, with its cover worn down to a stubble, when thrown at high velocity with the equally satisfying ‘pop’ into the deep pocket of a well-worn glove. Zzzzzip-pop. Zzzzzip-pop. Zzzzip-pop. Intoxicating. Yeah, I want some of that, I thought. Eventually, our day would come for this wonderful game.

The Game

Fuzzball is a variation of baseball, and very similar to cork-ball. Cork-ball, played with a miniature leather baseball-like sphere and a long skinny bat, has strong roots in St. Louis, and still to this day has competitive leagues playing the game in South St. Louis. We tried playing cork-ball in our youth but my memory of the game was that there were a lot of swings and misses, and when you did connect, the cork-ball went a long way and was immediately lost in the weeds. Then another trip to Howard’s Sporting Goods was required for a replacement. We decided that fuzzball was more efficient and more fun. I don’t think the game is still played by the youth of today. We sure played a lot of it in our neighborhood growing up in Cape Girardeau, Missouri in the 1960’s.

The rules that are particular to fuzzball are similar to cork-ball, which tend to make the game move along very quickly: 1) The ideal game is two on two: This allows for the minimum of a pitcher and catcher for each team defensively. It also means you get a lot of at-bats on offense. Having just two batters per team works because you employ “imaginary runners”. 2) The catcher is the umpire and there are three balls for a walk, and two strikes for an out. 3) A foul of any kind is an out. 4) Every ball that is hit in fair territory is a single, except for a ball hit over the fence of the tennis court which is naturally a home-run.  5) One swinging strike is an out if the catcher snags the pitch cleanly. 6) Any ball fielded cleanly by the pitcher was an out, and further, a batted ball on one hop to the pitcher is a double play if there are base runners. Also, a foul tip the catcher hangs onto is a double play with runners on base. Other than a few other nuances, those are the rules.  All you need is a well worn tennis ball and a long, thin cork-ball bat or thick broomstick, and you were in business. Some actually would burn the fuzz off of the tennis balls with a blowtorch, the smoother the better.  This game could be played anywhere, but the best place to play was on a tennis court, pitching into one of the corners.  One of our T-shirts would be home plate.

Hitting was sufficiently challenging; pitchers threw hard and also threw torqued-up hard breaking pitches.  Hacking at these pitches with a narrow broomstick or skinny cork-ball bat made squaring a ball up difficult for the most part. But oh, when you connected… …..wow…. prodigious, towering, majestic home runs into the next courts and beyond. It was perfect for young ballplayers living out fantasies of their heroes. Because we didn’t have to run the bases, it was expected and acceptable to stand and admire your homeruns.

My neighborhood fuzz-ball contemporaries when I played were Jimmy “Mack” Limbaugh, David “Crowe” Crowe, Robert “Moe” Meyer, Frank Kinder, Steve “Chops” Limbaugh, David “Doc” Limbaugh, Malcolm Montgomery, David “Bird-wan” Bertrand, Mike “Joe” Uhls, and Skip “Skeepie” Reams, and others. Occasionally, another classmate from the northwest side, Bobby Ervin, and I would take on challengers at Capaha Park. Bobby was one helluva ballplayer and one summer he and I went undefeated. (At least that is what Bobby and I have insisted for all these years).

A few other random memories:

• A very practical skill that was helpful was being able to ride a bike with a long skinny bat clamped with your thumbs to the handlebar.
• One summer, Steve “Chops” Limbaugh went on an insane home run spree. This seemed to come out of nowhere. Everyone was amazed.  Chops would eventually cross over to the dark side, dropping baseball in favor of actual tennis. He was very good, too.
• Crowe’s pitching repertoire included a very slow, mediocre and hittable curve ball that he called his “double scoobie doo with a twist”. The hype exceeded the quality on this one. All I have to do is think of this and it makes me smile.

The Letter

“Sorry boys, take your game somewhere else”

Fuzzball and traditional tennis do not mix very well. A fuzzball game tends to encroach on other adjacent courts fairly often. It could lead to uneasy encounters. One sunny summer morning a tennis playing adult couple arrived while we were playing fuzzball at the college courts and had the audacity to ask us to leave, so they could play their tennis game on our court. Whaaaat? Grumpy, but compliant of the request, we went home.  In the vernacular of the day, we were “run off”.

I did not witness the conversation that evening at the Crowe home, but there must have been something about the story that David Crowe brought home about our encounter that day did not sit well with Dr. John T. Crowe. It spurred him to make a purposeful phone call to the President of Southeast Missouri State College, Dr. Mark Scully. I have to believe that one or more of these concepts, such as “tax paying citizens”, “good community relations”, and “proper stewardship of university resources” may have come up in Dr. Crowe’s conversation with Dr. Scully. Knowing Dr. Crowe, some salty language was likely interspersed.  The result was a bona fide letter from Dr. Scully on his official letterhead to “Whom It May Concern”, explaining the above concepts and culminating in a statement that these young boys had every right to play fuzzball on the Southeast Missouri State tennis courts.

Crowe would carry this letter in his pocket when we played fuzzball at the college courts, with the hope for an opportunity to throw it down on some tennis playing jerk. We all wanted to be there when that card was played. Alas, I don’t think he ever got to use it. Crowe, Mr. Double Scoobie Doo himself, claimed to still have the letter the last time we spoke of this, some years ago. Rest in Peace, old friend.