The magic on a summer’s night

EDITOR’S NOTE: Donald Bardole is a 1965 graduate of East Greene High School. High school baseball games were played at the Rippey Ball Park. 

There was magic in the night. It happened twice a week when the East Greene High School baseball team was playing at home. The sights, the sounds, and the smells all bound those hot summer evenings permanently to the memory of this country boy.

As a farm boy, I did not go to every home game, but the local Lions Club had the concessions booth and Dad was a member, so he worked there several times each summer. I could attend a few more times if I was spending the night in town with Grandma.

The game always started before dark.  There was a fee for everyone who wanted to watch. The Lions Club was also in charge of collecting the entry fee at the gate. The fee seemed like a great, but fair sum for a boy of 10.

There was another way into the ballpark. The city skating rink was just beyond the left field fence and the ball field and skating rink backed up to the same corn field. A quick walk through the city park, through the rows of corn and into the crowd would buy free entry. No honest boy ever came in that way.

A summer of traffic took a toll on the road from the gate. No matter how slow the speed, cars kicked up great, rolling clouds of dark dust. It could be avoided.  

“Drive off in the grass to keep that new car clean, Doc!”  

The older boys competed to see who could build the greatest dust cloud. There were girls to impress.

The old and important folks parked their cars head into the ball field. The first base fence line was always parked full. They set in “private box” comfort, often with a “big league” game on the radio.  A home run, double play, or a great catch by the home team would bring the staccato sound of their car horns.

The real fans always used the grandstand. It was built like those in a thousand other towns, rising high behind home plate. Ten, maybe a dozen rows of bleachers protected by chicken wire and a tin roof.  Those benches for the committed stretched maybe 40 feet long.  The top row was best. You might miss the high arch of a pop fly, but you had something solid at your back and the night breeze to keep you cool.

There was, in the middle of the top row, the announcer’s box. An opening on the front let the announcer see out. Another opening on the back let the cool evening breeze in. No one - NO ONE - but the announcer and an official score keeper was let in. It was a cloister for those in control.

Along each baseline were the dugouts. The 2-by-12 bench was protected by the ever-present chicken wire. Both ends were open.  Just outside, close to home plate, was the “on deck” circle, a water jug set on the other end of the bench. In later seasons the jug was replaced by a fountain provided by the city fathers.

Before the game, a quick stop at the concession booth was expected. Popcorn, candy bars, pop, coffee, ice-cream bars, gum, and hot dogs were all available, if you had the money. They were all more expensive than up town. But that was all right, this was the ballpark.

Armed with a 10 cent bag of popcorn it was time for the magic to begin.

There was something about the mixture of smells. The dampness of early dusk blended with road dust, the faint odor of lime from the playing field, the smell of popcorn, and the overpowering odor of corn pollen. All those smells helped to weave the magic.

Just before the game began, the home town coach would jog down the third base line and lift the handle on the power pole. With that one motion, the lights were turned on and the field made ready for play. That simple act turned off the rest of the world.

Now, only those 18 men mattered. It was not like a play. You could not read the script of a ball game and know how it would turn out. It just happened. The skill and luck of those on the field created their own endings.

As their names were announced they trotted out of the dugout greeting each other with a back slap. As the opposing team was introduced, the home team greeted them with a warm handshake.

The umpire bawled “PLAY BALL.”

The games, different as they were all carried common elements.  The crack of the bat. A fielder lunging for a ball just out of reach. A runner sliding head first into home plate. Being out behind the stands to catch a foul ball and return it to the ump. The howl of the crowd if the call was good or bad. A friend to slap when you said, “I told you he was out!”

Dozens of ball games blur into one. Names of players never nationally known were, for a moment in time, ultimately important.  And there was always a dream that one day my name would be “at bat.”

Dreams pass as quickly as ball games.

The last out was made. The players crowded onto the field to wring the hands of the opposing players and talk briefly about that really great play, debating if it was skill or luck.

The old timers and important folks in their cars parked along the base lines were the first out. Everyone else had to search out their cars and wait until a pathway opened to the road.

Those who lived in town began walking away from that place of magic.

The coaches assistant slowly began storing equipment in large canvass bags. Bats. Balls. Bases removed from their moorings.  The water jug. The first aid kit. There were also other mysterious things that were simply not understood by the uninitiated.

When the stands were empty, the home town coach trudged down the third base line. This time the handle on the power pole was pulled down, secured, and locked.

Everything was suddenly dark. The two or three street lights along the drive were pale. The lights of the concession booth were dim as the last of the popcorn was given away. Candy and gum were returned to the refrigerator. The doors secured with a large padlock.

To be there when the lights went off was like losing your favorite ball. It took away all the magic that lived in a summer’s night. Even two or three blocks away you knew it! That dark chased you down the street and into the house.

The next morning it was as if nothing had ever happened. The lime along the baselines and around home plate was gone long before the end of the game. The popcorn bags and candy wrappers were picked up by boys whose dads worked the concessions stand. You could not tell there had ever been anything happening in that place.

Occasionally, my friends and I would go there during the day just to poke around, check the lock on the concession door, the announcers booth, and the handle that controlled the lights. There might even be a coin found between the grandstand and the concession booth. Before the weeds grew, treasures lost the season before could be found under the seats.

We went there for ball practice as well. Being part of PeeWee League, Little League, and Babe Ruth League was expected.  Some did very well and knew that one day they would play in a night game!  Most of us were only fair to poor players, barely capable of fielding a ground ball.

During the day, we looked for the magic. We never found it.

When the lights went out on the last “town team” game, the magic was lost forever.

What ever happened to the magic on a summer’s night.