by Angela Sanford
As a younger person I played organized softball, usually as a catcher or second base player and while I wasn’t overly skilled, I was enthusiastic. One season I was awarded the Most Improved Batter must to my surprise.
My final season of organized play, we were hosting the ATOM provincials at the Wreck fields in Noel and in the championship game we had used up our pitching team and Margie, our coach, must have been desperate when she decided to throw me in as a relief pitcher, in our final inning. She calmed me by saying all I had to do was get the ball across the plate, which I could do as a catcher. We held our own and managed to win the game and took home the title of Provincial Champs. That was my last year of organized ball but the start of many summers of pick-up ball in Uncle Alworth’s field behind Gram and Grandad’s.
These games were attended by a variety of skill and age levels and rarely were there not enough players to field two teams. As for the games themselves, I remember Darcy White having the longest home run hit – almost to the funeral home past centre field. Another memory that brings a smirk to my face is the afternoon game that was interrupted by the RCMP arriving at the funeral home during a funeral one afternoon. Our game immediately grinded to a halt and a small swarm of teenagers waited with bated breath to listen for any excitement we could hear.
When the field grew tall with hay, we were forced to find a new location and so the afternoon games went on the road, to the Wreck fields. Amusingly reminded of these days, there was one game many who were playing that Sunday afternoon won’t forget and though we ended the day laughing uncontrollably, the situation could have had a much different reaction when it carried through.
Standing at second, with John Lake playing short, we could hear a dirtbike climbing the hilled drive with steadily increasing speed. With collective foresight, we all knew exactly what was about to happen, and sure enough, it did. The rider was unable to make the sharp left turn at the top of the drive and went soring like Evil Knievel through the air and into a tree, while the bike also took flight into the trees just below the rider. The rider was able to walk away, basically unscathed, but I’m positive he has not forgotten his entrance to the game that day.
Childhood memories slip into our worlds, sometimes unexpectedly, with the passing of a location, the smell of s scent. Yearly, as the summer’s sport schedule gets attention, I fondly remember the organized play but, perhaps more, I cherished those memories that sneak in from the pick up games played nightly as if we were playing professionally.
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