One morning, a 55 degree sunny day, I went with Hank where he was to play a soft ball game at the Sun City diamond. Must have been a 100 people in attendance, 80 watching, probably 40 waiting their turn to play and 20 playing. Almost everyone knew Hank and they thumped him and each other in greeting. Lots of kidding about stiff arms, legs and shoulders that don’t quite work, hopes that they will in the coming games, hats being slapped against the other’s chest and gentle fists to the shoulder; just guys acting like kids though without the insecurity of youngsters trying out new roles.
The game is soft pitch, softball. The pitcher throws what we used to call “sucker“ balls, a slow curved arc to the batter which to be a strike, must hit a rectangular, 18” x 24”, plate. Even before the batter starts he has a ball and a strike against him. This makes the game go faster as each player has only 2 strikes to be out, three balls to walk. For the same reason, if the batter hits two foul balls, he’s out. The bases are designed to minimize collisions between players. First base is not a square but a rectangle made up of two squares one white one orange. The base runner has to touch the white side, the first baseman the orange side. Similarly, home plate is 18” or so away from the strike zone; the runner aims for the traditional diamond, the catcher, the rectangle mentioned earlier used for pitching. All these are meant to make the game safer for older players.
The camaraderie and good fellowship demonstrated by everyone is astounding. Even though each player wants to win, they applaud good hits, defensive catches, strong throws and running skills. “ Great hit, Gaston. You showed ‘em where you lived”. “ That guy has a cannon in mid-field.” “Christ, you wash lined that catch. Fantastic Vito!”
If a team reaches 5 runs in an inning, the other team comes to bat, (otherwise, in a miss-matched game, the score could be 50 to 1!). Also, games play in about an hour and a quarter, long enough to be challenging without crippling the players and short enough so that 6 or 7 games can be played in a normal day.
I was invited to stay in the team dug out, protected by hurricane fencing from foul and miss-thrown balls. Visibility was not as good as watching from the perimeter of the field but had the advantage of “listening in” on the team’s repartee.
Hank was the pitcher on the Outdoor Design (OD) Team so known because the Company had sponsored the uniform and bought an outfield advertisement. They were playing a formidable opponent, whose name escapes me, but a team made up with a number of players under 70, (“ ringers”, they would say).
Hank is 74 and his first pitch hung too long, the batter got under it and made a solid hit to centerfield, and he scurried to 2nd base. Unfortunately, quite a few other hits followed and the score moved steadily towards 5 runs. Another dispensation to older age, whenever a runner whose running skills were diminished by arthritis or hip surgery made it to first base, a spry, 60 year old “pinch” alternate took his place. Some guys could really move, others not so well, sort of gimped and stuttered but with all the concentration and enthusiasm of committed youngsters. At 5 runs the teams switched sides.Hank’s team were up and down in order; 1 2 3… gone. However, a special moment happened when Hank, number 2 in batting order, drove a slashing ball straight into left field. Home run for sure. The left fielder lurched into movement, gained speed and made a surprising, clothesline catch, feet off, almost horizontal and then crashed to the ground. Silence all around the field then, instantly 10 guys were at his side checking that nothing had broken. He unfolded, arose tentatively, and with a huge smile displayed the ball tightly held in his gloved hand. Hank was heard to say “ Holy Smoke. Da Bastid caught it !” in his inimitable Brooklyn accent.( Possible, he might have used another “S” word.) “Great catch Charlie, but don’t expect me to give you mouth-to-mouth “. Charlie got up, shook himself and contended he was “ Fine” so the game continued.
The OD team’s defense improved as the game continued but were having trouble scoring; by the 5th inning the score was 14 – 1, against. OD caught their first wind in the 6th, began to smoke and then flamed adding 3 runs. Then in the 7th, they shut their opponents down in order. Now the chant in the pen was, “ Only 10 to go to tie ‘em, 11 to win. We can do it. ”. (The 5 run rule is set aside in the last inning so the losing team can score as many as they are able, so long as they aren’t put out. ) The energy was electric and the score climbed to 14 - 9 with only one out. Did I mention the cheering wives? Cow bells, horns, clackers and loud enthusiastic shouts, both for and against. Probably 30 onlookers supporting both sides, all heavily invested in the game. What a hoot !
The 82-year old score keeper, plotting every play, was sitting on the edge of his seat hollering himself hoarse belittling the pitcher.
The OD team bench was empty, all standing, fingers hanging through the fence, shouting alternatively, abuse at the other team and encouragement for their own heroes. Second batter struck out. Damn; the tension was unbearable. OD’s best hitter took the plate. First hit a foul ball, another and he’d be out. Whack; the ball made a gentle ark into the pitcher’s glove. Oh well, (deep breath), it wasn’t to be. The contest ended as both teams met on the diamond to warmly congratulate each other on a game well played.As our teams cleared the field, the next two teams began sweeping the bases and cleaning up the runs in preparation for their game. There are 14 teams in the league. At the end of each season, members are shuffled about and are placed on a team according to the reports of their abilities, scrupulously noted by various scorekeepers. To make the games competitive the best players are balanced, shared around the teams in the league. Thus, over a period of years, players have often played with and against each other. Makes for great friendships, lots of memories and constant kidding; big kids without egos, just playing for fun. I‘d like to have joined.
Because our game ended at noon and it was Thursday, it was also,“ Hot Dog Day “; 12 inch long dogs for $1.50 each, dogs so good that people bought one to eat and two to take home for later. Hank bought a round for the team and as I reached for my wallet, he pressed me into the line saying, ” It’s all paid. Help yourself”. One spritely lady with a twinkle in her eye offered to spread relish“ all over your dog” which caught me openmouthed for a reply; three other ladies who overheard, exploded in laughter.
Hank & I played golf two days running. Didn’t bother to keep score, just enjoyed the game and felt good about the best shots. First game was played on one of the Sun City courses. I felt the designer of the course could have used the water hazards to better advantage. They always seemed to be peripheral to the fairways, never a threat. “ Wait ‘til tomorrow”, Hank said. “We’ll play a private course where their signature hole is a world renowned.” Number 13 was fantastic!
The tee approached the green, diagonally and a crow flying would first pass over a patch of grass bordering reeds, a 30 foot sandy beach, 150 feet of open water, ( embracing the fairway in a large “L” , with the long arm receding to the right and past the green) , then over another beach, more reeds and sloping up 50 feet of fairway to the flag. Perhaps a 220 yard hole, tee to flag; certainly do-able in a perfect world. (Bloody big challenge; which we both rose to like hungry fish to flies.) After 6 balls lost, mostly right, EACH, we decided to try the conventional, more intelligent approach, out at 45 degrees to the diagonal, 100 yards or so and then across the water to the hole. Most humbling hole but wonderful fun. Screwed up the next one as well as it bordered the ocean and by this time we were “water shy”. Absolutely glorious day in a very posh resort where numerous 10 acre lots are offered for one million dollars each and houses started at 3 or 4. Beautiful but deserted and unlike the beehive community of Sun City, we hardly saw anyone except some of Hank’s security guard colleagues who patrol the area. Hank has a part time job at the resort thus he invites special guests and we were able to play.My four days with Hank and Marge gave me a new appreciation for the Sun City retirement community. Everyone I met was friendly and welcoming, probably because I was with Hank who engenders these interactions. None-the-less, I could see myself living there. I must mention a visit to a dilapidated clam shack on the edge of a bay where the absolute best, fresh water clams were available, dredged directly from the river, cleaned and shucked for $8.95 a pound.
On my last day Marge and I visited Hilton Head, the Lighthouse, Harbor, Stores and then walked for miles along a beach with dolphins for company. This is the area Hank (Jr.) spent his summers. I was shown the spot where he managed to sail his windsurfer into a bank of clamshells . He came out bloodied but unbowed. That evening we saw a production of “ Little Shop of Horrors” at the Sun City Theatre, produced and presented by residents. It was enjoyable and full of energy. However, it is tough to cast 60 year old gals to play bobby-soxers, even though their voices are youthful, they are undone by ageing muscles and sagging bodies.I was pleased to have time to get to know Hank’s folks better who, although I’d met previously at events such as Marla’s wedding or when they were passing through Fairbanks on a cruise, didn’t. They are generous host and I look forward to our next meeting.
After leaving Hilton Head, I briefly stopped in Charleston with the hope of exploring a city I had visited and enjoyed, years ago. A marathon was being run on Saturday and 40,000 additional folk were expected for the weekend, consequently downtown rooms were going for $350 a night; traffic police were directing cars into remote parking areas and everything seemed chaotic.
I wasn’t up for the hassle; I headed for Myrtle Beach 300 miles North. All along the highway I could see the early signs of spring; forsythia in riotous yellow, cascading in shaggy clumps, cherry blossoms against the dark green of new grass. Next day, after an early breakfast I started to think of home and all the work I’d have to do to prepare for summer; the fields full of overgrown grass, gutters to repair from the heavy winter snow, new skins to replace on my hot water solar collectors, who knows what else. I put my foot down, drove 500 miles with a brief stop for lunch, the longest day of my trip, through the city of Washington, across Maryland and Delaware into New Jersey and home by about 10 pm. I walked about the yard in the dark and realized I had been premature; nothing growing just then, but certainly, immanent. I’d been away since January 26 and returned March 28, two, mostly fascination months, visiting old friends, making new and meeting family previously unmet. What a great way to spend a life!
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