On October 3, my hometown of Lincoln, Kansas, hosted what they called a Vintage Baseball Game. The game took place at the West Diamond and featured the Wichita Cowtown Team against the Lincoln County Sod Busters.
The game was played under 1860s rules, with the pitcher throwing underhand. The uniforms were vintage 1800s wool, which was hot and scratchy on a warm October afternoon. There was a large crowd in attendance, and the game was interrupted twice by women, dressed in period clothing, protesting
voting rights. Each player was given an 1800s-era nickname, which added to the cool factor.
The game was notable because two of my former classmates and teammates played for the local squad. Max “Wimpy” Wallace was a terrific high school athlete, a state-caliber sprinter, and good enough on the gridiron to garner a scholarship, yet he went to Kansas State to play baseball. Max, hardly a wimp, still looks like he’s about 25.
The other classmate was my good bud Dennis Luck, who went by the nickname Lucky.
The obvious nickname, Cool Hand, went to his younger brother Alan. Alan’s two boys also played: Braden “Big Country” and Austin “Loco.” Braden, living up to his nickname, knocked a couple of balls off the left-center fence.
Dennis was my batterymate during our Midget League years. Yes, that’s what our baseball league was called. Even in these politically correct times, it’s still called the Midget League, and I hope they never change it.
I got thrown into pitching duties when our star pitcher’s mother packed up and left town. Dennis, by default, was the catcher because he was the husky kid. Think Ham Porter from The Sandlot. That would have been Dennis. I struck out 50 batters in 50 innings. I would have had 15–20 more except my wildness had Dennis running to the backstop on many third strikes.
When my arm tired, Dennis pitched, and I moved to catcher. That’s how Dennis went about throwing a meatball to another classmate, Steve Heiser, who hit it out of sight into the rodeo grounds that bordered right field. I walked to the mound and said, “Holy crap, that went a long way.” Borrowing a line from Bull Durham, I remind Dennis every year that the last time I saw something flying that far, it had a meal and a stewardess on it. He replied, “That was a moment in my life that never seems to disappear.” Like that baseball did.
Our Cookie League coach, Lovie Holl, saw Dennis for what he was, nimble of foot with a sure glove, and moved him to the middle infield, where he excelled. Lovie was a helluva coach and a Lincoln institution.
At age 13, I blew out my elbow throwing sliders, which necessitated a move to right field. Every ball I threw back to the infield bounced at least once. Two summers later, my elbow magically healed, and I went back to the mound, several miles per hour slower, and started delivering long home runs of my own.
Our school was pretty much horrible in every men’s sport except track and baseball.
The final score of the Vintage game was 19–18, with the Sod Busters pulling out the victory thanks to Dennis’ two-RBI single in the bottom of the ninth, which drove home the winning runs. In his self-deprecating manner, Dennis said he stretched a couple of doubles into singles. Not bad, since he and Max are both 66, and many of their teammates and opponents were several decades younger.
For one hot Kansas afternoon, it was fun to see two friends turn back the clock. Who says you can’t teach an old ballplayer new tricks? The game was a smashing success, and there is talk about a rematch next fall. Here’s hoping it becomes an annual event.
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Speaking of traditional baseball, I found myself praying to the baseball gods that a San Diego pitcher would man up, channel his inner Bob Gibson, and put a fastball into the ribs of the Brewers’ William Contreras after his Game 3 home run dance-a-thon. My inner Crash Davis was screaming, “Move it, dummy,” while Contreras admired his shot. It took him 30 seconds to make his way around the bases, stopping a couple of times to flex. Contreras is a heck of a player, but I’d enjoy him a lot more without the theatrics.
When it comes to over-the-top crap like this, I love the advice Henry Aaron gave a young Dusty Baker about Bob Gibson.
“Don’t dig in against Bob Gibson, he’ll knock you down. He’d knock down his own grandmother if she dared to challenge him. Don’t stare at him, don’t smile at him, don’t talk to him. He doesn’t like it. If you happen to hit a home run, don’t run too slow, don’t run too fast. If you happen to want to celebrate, get in the tunnel first. And if he hits you, don’t charge the mound, because he’s a Gold Glove boxer.”
Man, I miss those days. I understand this is how the young guys do it nowadays, styling it, representing, whatever the hell they call it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. You kids get the hell off my lawn.
In a similar vein, I had to grimace while watching Cody Bellinger of the Yankees draw a walk. It took him at least 30 seconds to peel off all his protective armor and batting gloves, then put on his fancy oven mitt, then walk to first base.
Okay, Mommy, I’m ready to go to first base now.
I mean, the guy doesn’t have to be Pete Rose going to first (if you watched Pete, you know), but good lord, pick it up a little. I’d be in favor of a rule change that says a baserunner must wear all the armor he wore to the plate.
Aside from that, the Padres-Brewers series was a classic. Too bad one of them had to go home.
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It’s also been fun to see some former Royals in the playoffs. Samad Taylor had a moment with the Padres, collecting a single, then stealing second and eventually scoring on a groundout. That was cool to see.
A guy I thought the Royals gave up on too early, Foster Griffin, pitched well for Cleveland in Game 3 against the White Sox, striking out seven of the 10 batters he faced in a Guardians win.
Chris Getz had his White Sox on the verge of advancing before their epic three-game collapse. Former friends Randall Grichuk, Tommy Pham, and Andrew Benintendi all picked up at-bats for the Sox.
Mike Yastrzemski, Lane Thomas, and even Brewer Hicklen got some airtime for Atlanta.
John Schreiber pitched an inning for New York, and Kris Bubic made an appearance for Los Angeles. I must admit it was weird seeing those guys in different uniforms. I wouldn’t be brokenhearted if J.J. Picollo brought Bubic back, assuming he’s healthy.
Either way, the playoffs are always great to watch, especially now that the Damn Yankees have been sent to bed.
