Softball in the Summertime
We moved to Newtown, PA when I was eight. I was just entering 2nd grade. I spent 1st grade split between Mullica Hill, NJ where I lived with my parents at my grandparents dairy farm and Cherry Hill, NJ where we lived in what I called “the projects” — so I was happy that we were settling into a house that we would own.
I was a demanding kid. I talked a lot. I read incessantly. I had a lot on my mind and shared all of my opinions. I was certain of what I wanted to do, and when, and my mother, in particular, seemed determined to raise an independent minded child. She told me from as far back as I can remember that “you can do anything you want” and I always believed that. I’ve always approached life as if there were no barriers and I credit my mother with my tenacity.
We moved into an old house that we bought in an estate sale. It was a hot summer when we moved in and painted and sanded and made the house our home. I still think of summer as the time when the air is heavy with the weight of humidity, there is a constant buzz from the insects of summer as a backdrop and a perfect temperature that keeps your body heat in stasis with the external world. I love when days reach that perfect combination of heat, humidity, hazy light through piercing blue skies and an insect serenade — they take me right back in time to the innocence of childhood.
Every night we would go outside and play softball. I lived across the street from an elementary school — Chancellor Street — and it had a playground and fields and a perfect front lawn for pickup softball games. The playground — which has been removed over time as the world became more safety aware — was awesome. It had two wrought iron jungle gyms that we spent countless hours on climbing, sitting and talking and making up stories. The seesaws were pieces of wood with handles, swings that you could pump to the moon on and this awesome cement tunnel with stairs leading up to it on both sides and a peep hole on top that lead to countless battles of girls versus boys, pirates taking over ships and small snippets of delightful imagination.
Our street had so many kids that were my age. Next door to us, in the other half of our Philadelphia style duplex, were Linda and Sandy. And on the other side were Gill and Jeffi. And next to them were Trish, Amy, Frank and Tommy and then two doors down were Brendan and Jessica and eventually Susannah. Then the Menzen family with four or five kids — I don’t know how many because all but Genevieve were in high school and too old for us kids. A few houses down were Kathy and Scott and all the way at the end was the heartthrob babysitter, Kim. That was just one side of our block. Across the street were the Pughs who were also in high school and Sarah and Jason and eventually Ben and Ann, Tara, Brendan and Paul and then on the other side of the school was Mariah.
We had so many kids that we literally were turned out of the house after breakfast and rung back home by the big bell that Mrs Norris would ring for dinner. And then, in the soft dusk of an evening summer, we’d all tumble back out to the front lawn of the school and play softball. Home plate was a dirt patch under the big pine tree, first base a tree stump cut close to the ground, second base a section of the hedge and third base was the flag pole. The pitcher’s mound was a dirt patch in the middle of the lawn no doubt a dirt patch in the act of being a pitcher’s mound.
We’d divide up families of kids and alliances and create teams and a night of softball, full of debates and all out brawls over whether someone was safe or out a ball fair or foul would unfold. We’d play until the street lights came on, the fireflies were in force and the sky became too dark to see the ball. And then we’d all go home to put our dirt dusted tired bodies to bed.
