Originally posted on Facebook on April 12--The past two afternoons I had journalistic duties
beyond the comfort zone of Fowlerville; ones that required me to drive around
for a couple of hours. To keep myself company, I tuned the radio. But instead
of hearing music from the Oldies station or getting educated on NPR, I found a
station broadcasting the Tigers’ games.
Yesterday,
Justin Verlander, normally a stalwart on the mound, got beat up from the ‘get
go’ by the Pittsburgh hitters. This afternoon, however, the Detroit batters
took their revenge on the Pirate hurler by dishing out a similar misery.
A split outcome, but on both of these
afternoons this was an enjoyable way to add some entertainment while going
about my duties.
In doing so, I joined a vast conspiracy of
fans who sneak in some sports updates while on the time clock.
Watching baseball on TV gives you a better
grasp of the actual action that’s unfolding, but this requires a passive
approach. You’re usually sitting and starting. I don’t normally have the
patience. Listening to the play-by-play on the radio can be, like-wise,
passive, yet it also allows you (if you so choose) to be doing other things.
Listening to the games on the radio these
past two days brought back a fond memory.
When I was a kid, growing up on a farm, our family didn’t have too many
opportunities to enjoy outings far removed from the local area. We always had
to be back to milk the cows. One of those opportunities for adventure came once
or twice every summer when my mom and dad, on a hot Sunday, decided to pack a
picnic and head over to Myers Lake, located over on Silver Lake Road.
The lake in those bygone days had a public
beach and bordering that shoreline were dozens of small sites where people
could park their car and use the grill and picnic table. There was a bath house
for putting on or taking off the swim suit, a barn-like building where day
visitors could roller skate, and the attraction of three or four kiddie rides
including a small ferris wheel.
Once arrived, we kids had a pretty free
rein. We could wander around the area. There was a weathered building that
served as a roller skating rink. The numerous windows were open to allow in any
breeze, and as we walked by we could hear music and see the skaters circle about.
We would also head down to the concession stand, located next to the bathhouse,
to see what treats might be available. As I recall we never had ample cash to
buy anything. My parents were not generous in their allowance, but hope springs
eternal.
Swimming was, of course, the main event.
The rule of waiting an hour until after you ate your meal was in full force in
those days. Mothers never wavered.
Probably a wise adage; still a torture for a youngster eager to splash
around in the water when the thermometer was in the high 80s and there was an
overpowering urge to join the older kids by swimming out to the raft in deep
water.
One of my fond images of those visits was
walking along the driveway, past all of those cars parked in their respective
sites. The women would be fussing around the picnic table, either setting out
the food and tableware or packing them away. The men folk would be resting in a
lawn chair, napping or sipping on a beverage. Nearly all of the cars had their
radios on, with the Tiger ball game turned on.
You could walk along, passing car after car,
and never miss a detail.
Baseball, heard on a radio at a public
place like Myers Lake, was a shared experience. The adults could eat their
fried chicken, sip lemonade or a can of beer, watch the kids play, and listen
to Ernie Harwell and George Kell describe the play-by-play action. Back then
Charlie ‘Paw Paw’ Maxwell was known as “Sunday Charlie” due to his habit of
hitting home runs on the Sabbath. ‘Paw Paw’ was a nickname given to him due to
Charlie being from that southwest Michigan town.
Al Kaline, though, back then and to this
day was my favorite ball player. I was too young have seen the great Fowlerville
Flash, Charley Gehringer. Had I seen him perform as I did Kaline, I suspect I’d
have been a conflicted young fan. Both of them were quiet, unassuming
gentlemen, along with being exceptional ballplayers—both at the plate and in
the field.
Simple memories of a seemingly simpler time?
Perhaps. Or maybe just a fond recollection of long-ago Sunday summer afternoons
when a young farmer and his wife, looking for a brief change of routine and
some relief from the constant routine of hard work and from the oppressive
summer heat, packed up the three kids, brought along a picnic basket full of
food, and headed off for the amenities of a nearby lake.
Baseball, heard on the radio, just added to
the pleasure of the adventure.
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