The Boys Of Summer
A little softer through the years

By Ron Ciancutti 

I was born in 1960 and have played baseball since I can remember. There were no formalized leagues in the 1970s for kids younger than 9, but we played pickup games every day.  Today those games seem a thing of the past.  I hate to sound like an old man, but the game has sure changed in many ways, as have the lessons and benefits.

As kids, once we finally got on a real team, we looked forward to finding out our team’s name. In spite of their record in the 1970s, we still wanted to be the Cleveland Indians. Running out to take our positions, we would yell, “I’m Greg Nettles” or “I’m Ray Fosse” or “I’m Gaylord Perry.” The Tribe games were heard in static-laden tones from a tiny single speaker in an AM radio ($1.98 at Woolworth’s) that dangled from a strap hung on our bicycle handlebars. We memorized the images from baseball cards and stood like the players, batted like the players, and tried to spit a lot because that was a sign of being cool. Even then, there was a certain prestige if you played for the Yankees or the new-style ‘70s, hipper “A’s” with players like Rawley Fingers and Blue Moon Odom to emulate.

Coaches were different then also. Most coaches were a bit plump with visible “former athlete” signs: a heavy but hard gut, strong arms, balding head and a farmer’s tan. Most came to afternoon practice in factory-line clothing straight from work. They were not above a little name-calling or a few chiding remarks. “For cryin’ out loud, Seensooty, get under the ball!”

But the players shook those comments off because everybody got the same treatment, and it helped a boy develop thicker skin. Grown-ups were always yelling at kids about something anyway; it was part of the territory. We played hard, swung for the fences, and slid into every base we could--for nothing else but to create dust around us. Baseball had a taste and smell and an aura like nothing else. We just wanted to play.