It’s spring. Time to lace up baseball cleats, pick up a bat and play ball.
.JPG "A vintage base ball game at Old Cowtown Museum.")
You gotta be determined as the devil, selfless as a saint. Keep it ‘tween the white lines, and hit ‘em where they ain’t.
—John McCutcheon, Sermon on the Mound
I can’t remember the last time I’ve looked forward to a baseball season as much as this one.
As I write this on a sunny spring Friday afternoon, opening day for the Royals was yesterday. The Wichita Wind Surge have their home opener on April 11.
And my own opening day is two days away.
Come Sunday, barring freakish weather (always a possibility in Kansas), I’ll be on the field at the Old Cowtown Museum. For more years than I’d care to admit, I’ve been a member of the Bull Dozers, which along with our rival team, the Red Stockings, makes up the Cowtown Vintage Base Ball Club.
Base Ball, by the way, is not a typo. That’s the way they spelled it in the 1870s, the period Cowtown endeavors to re-create.
Our team names and uniforms come from grainy newspaper clippings about two local teams from back when Wyatt Earp patrolled the streets of Wichita.
We play by the same rules they did.
The pitching is underhand, but you can throw as hard or soft as you like. If a batter’s bit by a pitch, the pitcher has to tip his cap and apologize — no walks.
In fielding, if you catch a ball on the first bounce, the batter’s out, although any baserunners can still advance.
They didn’t have video replay back then, so if an umpire was unsure of a close play, he could appeal the call to the fans in the stands.
They call it “vintage” baseball and I’m a little more vintage than most.
Most guys play barehanded. The ball’s a little softer than a modern one, but after breaking a finger 10 years or so ago catching a high fly, I’m one of the few who wears a period-correct reproduction glove.
Baseball gloves were a new invention in the 1870s and more like a leather work glove than a modern mitt. Even so, they were considered somewhat unmanly (like I care). The earliest gloves were made with flesh-toned leather to hide that you were wearing one and some players even painted fingernails on theirs to fool the fans in the stands.
But despite the rule differences and the historical re-enactment aspects — the only modern equipment on the field is shoes, to prevent injuries — it’s still baseball and we’re playing to win, against each other or teams from Topeka, Emporia, even other states.
The thing I’ve noticed is that every year, the other players keep getting younger.
Our players range in age from teens to retirees, and I’ve been in the “wily old veteran” category ever since I started.
In the song I quoted at the top of this column, folk singer John McCutcheon advises “Play every game like it was your last.” I do, because at my age, it very well could be.
I’ve been practically haunting the YMCA, working the Octane machine and the hand bike to try to get in some kind of shape for the upcoming season. My wife, Kathy, accused me of obsessing on it, and she’s right.
But Kathy’s also the one who made me appreciate my extended opportunity to play this game that I’ve always loved.
In 2019, I had brain surgery for a life-threatening bacterial infection that affected the use of my right hand. My first game back, my throws were weak and erratic, and I was feeling pretty down on myself.
Kathy looked me straight in the eye and said “You do remember that five months ago, you couldn’t hold a pencil in that hand, right?”
It’s a perspective I’ve carried ever since.
So at 1 p.m. on Sunday, I’ll be out there in uniform, with my team, trying to field some hot grounders and turn some double plays.
Sunday’s a free-admission day at Cowtown, so feel free to drop by and watch a few innings.
If you want to play, show up early and talk to any of us. We’re always looking for volunteers and we can always make room.
That’s how I got involved, all those years ago. And I’ve not regretted it even one day since.
