On this Father’s Day I remember a special baseball game with my dad

The Sacramento Solons and the Portland Beavers - what could be better?

My dad used to joke that he was “Made in Portland.”

He may have lived the last half of his life in Davis, but he would forever be an Oregonian.

He and Mom and their five young kids, of which I was fourth in line, figured we’d all be lifers in the City of Roses.

But one day, as Dad turned 40, he decided he wanted to complete the college degree he had started at Oregon State that was interrupted by the outbreak of World War II and his combat service in that war.

I was too young to know how the discussion about such a dramatic change of scenery went between Mom and Dad, but soon enough, on my 5th birthday no less, we arrived in the charming town of Davis, population 3,554.

The small Ag campus on the south side of Russell Boulevard had exactly 1,029 undergraduates.

We fully intended to return to our beloved Portland when Dad finished his schooling, but life took us all in another direction.

Although it wasn’t in the original plan, Dad continued his studies until he was granted a Ph.D. in Plant Physiology at the age of 47.

By then, Davis was the only place we wanted to be.

Interestingly, so many of my childhood memories in this town revolve around baseball. I suppose that might not be unusual for a young boy in a small town in the 1950s.

Baseball was my friend from the time I began to commit Major League batting averages to memory to my first Little League game and finally to my forced retirement as an active player after three years of Babe Ruth League baseball while being coached by the legendary Milt Silva.

It was at that point I realized I would never become a Major League ball player, though that was all I had ever wanted to be. Thus, I began to channel my interest toward being strictly a fan.

All that said, there remain several incidents from my Little League days that stand out and will never be forgotten.

My first baseball thrill came when I donned a red cap and T-shirt as a member of the Tigers in the newly formed Davis Little League. Although I was two weeks too young to play according to league rules, Dad let me fudge the date of my birth so I didn’t have to wait another whole year to break in my Mickey Mantle bat and my Ernie Banks baseball glove.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

The Tigers were a well-balanced, disciplined team that went 0-20 the first season. I alternated between playing right field and left out.

We were not exactly a coach’s dream, and as a result we never got a real coach. The parents of the players used to take turns each week coaching the Tigers because no one was willing to take us on for a full season.

Midway through the season, the powers of the league changed our name to the Cubs, evidently hoping to erase the stigma of having played for the Tigers, or perhaps to trick someone into managing us on a regular basis.

The second year we fared just a bit better, but nearly lost our full-time manager when he offered to buy us all an after-game ice cream sundae at Foster’s Freeze (a Little League tradition) and we ordered nearly everything in sight. After that, we got to go to Fosters only when we won, and we pretty much went hungry the rest of the year.

In the middle of the third year of my illustrious career, three big events took place. First, Fosters Freeze had its first and last 10-cent hamburger sale; second, Davis’ first stoplight was installed at the junior high school on B Street; and third, I finally got to see a big-time baseball game featuring the Sacramento Solons.

Although the Solons were not in the big leagues, they were all we had. Major League owners had not yet moved anyone out to the West Coast, and as a result, going to Edmonds Field to watch a Pacific Coast League game was a big deal to say the least.

Had you told me then, when the Giants were still in New York, the Dodgers in Brooklyn and the A’s in Philadelphia, that one day we would have Major League Baseball in Yolo County, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

The night that I finally got to go to a Solons game was a dream come true. My former hometown heroes, the Portland Beavers, were in town for a 6:30 p.m. doubleheader. It was already 7 in the evening when I found out about the two games. Knowing that he, too, was an ardent Portland fan, I casually mentioned to my dad about the game, certain that he would say it was too late to start out on such a venture.

To my complete surprise and heartfelt gratitude, Dad suggested we could still make the second game if we forewent dinner and left right away. Assured that I could get a hot dog at the game, I jumped at the chance to see Portland play, and we headed out across the Causeway to Sacramento. Just Dad and me.

We listened to the car radio on the way over as the Solons whipped our heroes in the first game, and arrived just in time for the start of the second contest. As it turns out, it just wasn’t our night. Portland slowly fell behind in the second game as I vainly chased foul balls all over the stands, hoping to take home a souvenir.

The thought of latching onto a foul ball to the cheers of the crowd was enough to spur me on to a never-ending effort. However, it was a dream that wouldn’t come true. An occasional errant shot came our way, but it always ended up in someone else’s hands after a wild scramble. I wished I had brought that Ernie Banks baseball glove I so cherished.

As I sat in the very spot where Target now sells hot dogs and baseball bats, I made a deal with the Man in Charge. It was OK if the Beavers lost twice if I could just once take home a foul ball.

Late in the seventh inning it almost happened. A foul pop landed about three feet behind us, but unfortunately, it was scooped up by a very large man before I could reach it. The hostess came around to offer the lucky fan two tickets to the next Solons game in exchange for the ball, and he agreed. The fans booed. I couldn’t believe it. What on earth was the matter with someone who would give up such a precious trophy?

As Portland fell further and further behind, we finally packed up and headed for the exits near the end of the eighth inning. It was a school night, after all.

Two losses and no souvenir. I looked toward the sky with one last prayer. As we headed down the stairs toward the outside of the stadium, I turned on my small transistor radio to hear the end of the game while Tony Koester called the play-by-play on KFBK. Mr. Koester calmly indicated that the batter, Reno Chesbro, had just hit a routine foul ball high out of play over near the right-field bleachers.

All of a sudden, Dad let go of my hand and made a mad dash from the parking lot back toward the steep steps into the stadium, and as I looked to the top of the ramp, I saw it coming. Reno Chesbro’s foul ball was bouncing slowly down the steps, one by one, as Dad scampered up to retrieve it.

It was impossible I thought. I must be dreaming. But there it was. My prayer was answered and the sting of defeat was completely gone.

I figured my life was complete no matter what happened from that moment on.

“Dad, could I please have the ...”

“Sure.”

Reach me at bobdunning@thewaryone.com