I suppose it’s because it reminds me of my own Little League days when we competed on the very same diamond where Davis Little Leaguers play today.
Win or lose, I have nothing but fond memories of those days.
While no Davis all-star team has ever made it all the way to Williamsport, that Pennsylvania city was somehow in the back of our minds as we fielded ground balls and chased fly balls at the first after-school practice in early spring.
Why Williamsport, of all places?
Well, that’s where Little League baseball was invented in 1939 and where the first Little League World Series was held in 1947.
Baseball was truly the National Pastime in my playing days, even though the nearest Major League team was far, far away in St. Louis.
Had you told me then that one day they’d be playing Major League Baseball in Yolo County, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
In my Little League experience, we had only a major league and a minor league.
You had to be eight years old by Aug. 31 to play in the minors, but my birthday wasn’t until Sept. 12, even though many of my closest friends were a month or two older and eligible to play.
However, my dad knew how important baseball was in my young life so he let me fudge my birthday by 12 days so I could play with my friends.
Fortunately, being Catholic, I was able to go to Confession and cleanse my soul of this grave misdeed.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I lied about my age by 12 days so I could play baseball.”
“That will be 12 Our Fathers and 12 Hail Marys and I hope you hit a home run.”
Many years after my playing days were over, I had the distinct pleasure of serving as one of several volunteer coaches for the team my oldest son, Ted, was on.
The Davis Little League had added a diamond or two since I had played there, built a better snack bar and expanded through other age groups, but never older than 12.
Ted was playing at the Farm level, where it was nearly impossible for any 8-year-old to throw an accurate pitch from a distance of 45 feet.
The solution was that parents such as myself took turns doing the pitching.
Thus, I was able to realize a lifelong dream when I was named one evening as the starting pitcher for Ted’s team, the Twins, on the diamond farthest from the immensely popular snack bar.
And never mind that I was nearly 30 years older than the average batter, had to pitch underhanded and say “nice try, honey” every time a kid swung and missed.
I also had to endure my pitching arm stiffening during a 10-minute delay, not for rain, but for an errant 8-year-old who had gone for popcorn when he was due at the plate.
This was my chance to sparkle from 45 feet against kids half my size, some of them so short all I could see was a batting helmet covering a pair of dusty tennis shoes.
I had paid my dues in my own Little League days, alternating between right field and left out, always wondering what it would be like to feel my foot on the pitching rubber, look in for the “sign” and glance slyly over my shoulder at the runner on first.
It would be the ultimate experience in sports.
Eighteen people playing baseball at the same time and all of them waiting for me to throw the ball from my slippery hand.
I was the one in control, mastering these little helmet-headed hitters as skillfully as Warren Spahn, the best in the business in his day.
True, I did have a rough time of it in the bottom of first when they tagged me for five runs to end the inning under some sort of misguided “mercy rule,” but I settled down admirably after that.
In fact, in the bottom of the second, I struck out one kid on three pitches.
And so what if he was the same kid who had been carried limp from the field the inning prior after trying to field a sharp ground ball with his mouth?
I didn’t give up any runs at all in the third and fourth innings, but at that point, the game was called due to a league rule that play shall be suspended when over half the players on the field are eating sno-cones.
Afterward, I checked the scorebook and tallied up my night’s work.
I had given up just four actual hits and hadn’t walked anyone. Actually, no one walks in Farm League because the emphasis is supposed to be on hitting but I wouldn’t have walked anyone anyway.
I struck out eight and beaned two, but only one critically.
The bad news is that, due to a strange quirk in Farm League rules, parents pitch only to the team their kid is on. Which means I struck out eight of our own batters when the whole goal was to throw them something they could hit onto Covell Boulevard.
I was leading the league in strikeouts, but every parent was flaming mad at me for striking out their kid, and no one invited me to the post-game potluck.
I was never invited to pitch again.