When it comes to playing ball, North Lewisburg has an obsession for it. The local ballpark has always been a center of attention for the community and softball/baseball fanatics.
The present-day ballpark is not the original home of the sport in North Lewisburg. Once-upon-a-time, the ballpark was located a bit farther to the north and across the street from its present location. A vacant field marks the spot today, but not so very long ago...
The smell of popcorn permeated the air, as did the sounds of the umpire's calls. The ball park was accessible via an entrance from Sycamore Street. A snack shack and announcer's overlook was located behind the protective fence, just behind home plate. The plate was on the southwest, with first base to the east and third base to the northwest. There were bleachers located behind the protective fence, running parallel to the fence. They were constructed of concrete blocks, with thick wood boards forming the seats. Underneath the bleachers could be found discarded paper coffee cups, popcorn bags or boxes, candy bar wrappers, an occasional coin or two, and weeds. Directly above the bleachers were the outstretched limbs of mulberry trees, heavily-laden with their luscious fruit. Fallen mullberries stained the wood seats, and often provided an unnecessary "squish" when an unsuspecting spectator sat down.
Spain Creek ran along the southern boundary of the park, its flowing water making noises as it tumbled over rock outcroppings, or as it dropped from the spillway dam onto the rocks below. The dam was there for a reason - it had been the site of the collecting point for the watertower which stood between the creek and the train depot. The old steam engines refreshed their boilers with water siphoned up from the creek and into that tower.
Spain Creek at this time was a meandering stream, cutting its channel through the rocky outcroppings. The banks of the stream were alive with weeds, flowers, shrubs and trees, all drawing nourishment from the gently-moving water. There were trails and footpaths which cut in and out of the trees and tall plants, providing lots of areas for exploration and discovery. Boys and girls strolled or ran along those trails in various games of adventure...or just as an excape from the noise and confusion which was taking place on the ballfield.
Little League was formed in North Lewisburg about 1955, the product of the labors of men like John L. Tomlin and Everett Brelsford. These men, and others of like mind who served as coaches and umpires, organized young boys into teams with names like "Indians," or "Nats," or "Cubs." Boys who might otherwise be spending their time in front of the new-fangled television, or getting themselves into trouble with other pursuits, were banded together in fast-pitch baseball.
Adults participated, too, as members and supporters of the North Lewisburg Firemen, a fast-pitch softball team which had been organized decades before. The various teams over the years had brought home much-deserved championship honors. The town produced a large number of exceptional players...catchers, pitchers, infielders, and outfielders who made the area newspaper articles, or were determined to be "All-State" in their particular areas of expertise. The town was obsessed with supporting these valiant men as they went forth to do battle against other teams throughout the area.
In this ball-crazy atmosphere I found myself one Sunday evening. I was a member of the "Indians," coached by Richard "Hank" Holycross, a jovial, sport-loving veteran of World War II. He had seen me perform during practices, and realized that I did not have much future as a baseball star. But, he wanted me to have an opportunity to participate as a member of the team, so he stuck me in center field, with the idea in the back of his mind that that position would be safe for both the team and me. Dutifully, I took my position in the field, oversized glove on my right hand, ball cap on my head, and otherwise far from the cheering crowd.
The reader must understand that I did not really want to be there. That was the same night that Disneyland was to officially open in California, and I wanted to remain at home to watch the festivities on that wonderful black-and-white television which held the place of honor in our living room. That was not to be. My step-father, "Putt" Forsythe, was a sports nut; he was not going to allow his 10-year old stepson to sit in front of a TV when he should be on the ballfield. After much protesting on my part, he (6 feet tall, and all of 300 pounds) pulled my skinny, little 65-pound body-when-wet - complete with ball glove - into the waiting 1947 Chevrolet. We were off to the ballpark.
Some minutes later, I was standly rather idly in the center field, not very mindful of the activity taking place closer to home plate. I was awakened from my reveries when I heard the announcer say that Mickey Graham was advancing to the plate. Now, I knew Mickey Graham. He, his brother Dave, and his family lived just up the hill from my house at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets. Mickey was older than the rest of us boys who lived on that street, much more muscular and toned, but we enjoyed his company. The other boys and I often gathered at his home to play a long, extended game of "Monopoly" in the dug-out area under his house. The east wall was open to the great outdoors, and the area reminded us all of a cave. It was cool, dark, and damp...the perfect place for boys to congregate before some great adventure, or just as a place of refuge from our parents.
Flash forward to 1955: Mickey advances to the plate, determined to provide his team with the much-needed runs required to win the game. Skinny, little me awaits in center field, praying with all my might that Mickey either strikes out or hits the ball to someone in the infield. There is a mighty swing as the ball passes by Mickey - "Strike one!" rings out from the umpire. Tiny beads of perspiration run from my hairline down the sides of my face. The pitcher winds up again, and sends the ball hurling toward the plate once more. Mickey doubles back, takes another swing, and "Stike two!" echos across the park. I pound my fist in my oversized glove, and hunker down with my hands on my knees (just like Coach Holycross had shown us in practice) awaiting the next pitch. My eyes are focused on the pitcher as he winds up and throws the ball yet again. I see the mighty swing and hear the crack of the bat, and look up to see the sphere rising higher and higher into the atmosphere. It seems to hang there for a very long time until it starts its descent once again. Then I realize that it is headed directly toward me. I hear the crowd roaring, the distinctive voice of the Coach yelling my name, urging me to watch the ball and catch it. My eyes follow the orb as it moves toward me. I adjust my position and move forward to catch it before it strikes the ground. I realize that I am not moving fast enough, so I increase my pace. I run forward as fast as my thin legs will take me, right arm and glove upstretched to catch the ball. The crowd roars its approval and I approach, my head spinning with the sound of victory. I will be a hero! All I have to do is catch the ball!
A few minutes later, I open my eyes to see several people standing around me. I am laying prone on the ground, my arms outstretched in a modified cross. My hat is at my side. Farther away is my baseball glove. My head throbs even as people ask "Are you okay?" Eventually helped to my feet, I realize that I did not catch the ball. It caught me - on the head. No victory, no salvation for our team, no heroism for myself. Mickey Graham has rounded all of the bases, the game is won, and I am helped from the field.
At school the next day, friends laugh about my failure on the field the night before. I am deeply humiliated and embarassed even moreso later in the week when Coach Holycross stops by to let me know I have been traded to another team...probably the only such trade in North Lewisburg Little League baseball history.
And I never got to see the televised opening of Disneyland.
