A Midsummer Night’s Baltimore Baseball Dream

My son Quinn played 5-and-under tee-ball in the Parkville little league on Saturday mornings this summer. I knew some pretty good ballplayers in that area 40 years ago and figured it was a good fit. Driving across town from Guilford to the fields at Double Rock Park, I changed the route each week as the memories of my own little league career in the 1970s came back to me.

I passed the Dumbarton Middle School field where my Cockeysville-Springlake little league team won the regional title by defeating Loch Raven 3-2 in 1974 on the way to winning the 9-10 Baltimore County championship. 

My dad captured the final out on eight-millimeter film—a pop-fly in foul ground off third base that I staggered back and caught. The bench erupted like it was the last game of the World Series.

With spring practices rained out, Quinn’s first official act was the team photo. I ordered a baseball card version that made him look like a veteran little leaguer before he ever swung a bat.

I was struck by the authentic uniforms for all the teams—the A’s (Quinn’s team), Cubs, and newcomers like the Nationals and Diamondbacks. In the '70s, we wore cotton uniforms with bleached patches and our hats carried no logos. We bent our bills into curves or squared them off.  A nice glove back then was not a given, but I made sure my son had one. It even came pre-oiled and broken-in.

We arrived early for the first game, and the freshly raked and lined infield basked untouched in the morning sun. I remembered taking the field for infield practice, the smell of fresh cut grass, and cicadas in the trees.

I hadn’t realized it when I signed Quinn up, but the baseball diamonds at Double Rock are located only a few blocks away from where my maternal grandparents lived in Parkville. I learned to hit a baseball in the backyard of 3011 Oak Forest drive. My grandfather, Dino Bartoli, held his arms around mine and cocked the bat. My Uncle Bernie pitched underhand and we swung together.

“Swing level, hit line drives,” he said.

Pop was a lifetime .300 hitter in the Pennsylvania leagues during the '30s. When his career ended, he took a job as yardmaster at Sparrow’s Point. Bernie played in the Parkville pony leagues and was the subject of a Bill Free News American article for his fast-pitch softball prowess. His sister (and my aunt) married Don Beck, who lived at the end of the block, a standout player drafted by the Milwaukee Braves.

In Quinn’s first game against the Phillies, I repeated my grandfather’s mantra from my position as first base coach. “Swing level,” I yelled to him. He made contact after a few whacks, and roared around the bases. Everyone on the team batted in each inning. In the field, he charged most balls in his vicinity before letting the riotous scrum proceed without him. Coach Keener was very patient with the boys. Like many of the coaches, he had grown up in the Parkville Little League.

Based on fundamentals, the best team in the tee-ball division this year was the Parkville Princesses, an all-girls team. They recorded the only legitimate put-outs I witnessed all season. Clad in pink tie-dye shirts, they fielded their positions with skill and made sharp throws to first.

***

I showed Quinn where my first at-bats occurred off Goucher Boulevard in the summers of ’69 and ‘70. We organized pick-up games on the Courthouse Square apartment tennis courts—lowering the nets and playing hardball on the asphalt, much to the chagrin of the tennis playing set.

Scuffed balls streaked green bounced off the fenders and hoods of parked cars in foul territory. That didn’t stop us from hauling our mitts and Hillerich & Bradsby lumber to the courts each day. First ups were determined by a game called “bottle caps.” The person whose thumb reached over the knobbed handle won the contest.

We pretended to be Johnny Bench, Henry Aaron, Harmon Killebrew, Brooks Robinson and Paul Blair—my favorite.

My tee-ball games were played in the county, at Padonia and Warren elementary schools. Half the season was tee-ball and the kids pitched in the rest of the games. My mom witnessed one of my early performances as a hurler. I hit Ross Burchill twice with pitches and hit two home runs. She sat next to Ross’s mom.

***

The Parkville Little League organized a June outing to Camden Yards when the Orioles played the Nationals, and my son paraded around the warning track with Little Leaguers from all over the Baltimore area. I waited at the right field foul pole for him to enter. It was something I had never done.

My grandfather took me to Orioles games at Memorial Stadium and we’d arrive early for batting practice. He hustled up and down the steps chasing down balls and we always left with at least two. During one game, he dove headfirst into a crowd after a home run ball and emerged with splinters in his hands. Another time the stitches from a liner that got away left an imprint on his palm.

I spent steamy July afternoons in his cool cellar putting on my traveling team uniform at least five hours before game time. Stirrup socks and sanitary hose were the uniform highlights for me back then. All of my teammates wore the same cleats—black Adidas with orange stripes—paying homage to the Orioles who were great every year back then.

No other team mattered to us.

During the season, Quinn showed flashes of ability—a throw here, a solid line drive there. The promise of his first trophy kept him engaged toward the end of the season. He became more interested in the uniforms of the other teams.

“I don’t want to be an Oakland A anymore. I want to be a Chicago Cub,” he said.

***

Coaching first base during a mid-season game, another coincidence hit me. My dad’s parents, John and Mary Smith, are both buried at Parkwood cemetery, a little over a mile away from Double Rock.

I started taking Northern Parkway home and stopped in the alley where I learned to field at my grandmother’s apartment in Northwood.

My Aunt Carol, then a Sister of Mercy, would come over on Saturday afternoons and we would play Pepper. She slapped grounders and line drives at me, and resembled Babe Ruth’s mentor Brother Matthias in her flowing religious garments.

When the neighbors disapproved of our game and told us to move, I retreated. She shot back.

“Stay where you are. They don’t own these grounds.”

Nana Smith bought me my first glove, a Mickey Lolich-autographed Spalding from Pop’s Toy Store where Belvedere Square now stands.  She made me an Orioles uniform with the number “6” on the back for my favorite player, Paul Blair. She helped me make a sign, “Yankees Beware, Here Comes Paul Blair,” for a game against the Yankees.

She also knew where the best back alley sno-ball stands were.

Nana died in June 1988, just after the worst losing streak in Orioles history. Tucked into her Parkwood cemetery grave marker are the faded and crumbled ticket stubs to Ripken’s 2130 game I placed there in 1995.

For a moment, I could see all of my late grandparents attending Quinn’s little league game in their lawn chairs down the third base line.  The only problem was, I had forgotten to do my job and tell the players to run. There was now a traffic jam at first base.

***

I love baseball and still do. Back then, it provided me with the perfect outlet and distraction from my parents' divorce. As long as I could throw a ball against a wall or a curb, play in a game or listen to the Orioles on the radio, nothing else mattered. I realize now that those great Baltimore baseball years were a gift, and an era that we may never see again in our lifetimes. If my kids enjoy the game, then fine. If not, that’s OK too.

During the days between tee-ball games, I practiced with Quinn in our backyard. My daughter Julia began to show an interest. A lefty, she turned 7 in April. She picked up the bat one day and stepped to the plate.

“Swing level,” her brother instructed.

My first underhand toss was clubbed deep into our backyard with a mighty uppercut. It landed in the treetop—a Ruthian clout.

At age 4, Quinn knows the names of Cal Ripken, Brooks Robinson, Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth. He’s seen pictures of them in my childhood sports books like The Greatest Players in the Major Leagues and inquires about them on a regular basis.

“Dad, is Babe Ruth still alive?” he asks. When I tell him that the Babe passed away many years ago, he says, “That’s really sad, isn’t it?”

I agree with him.