Baseball Way Back: Little League made big leaguers of all of us

In 1972, ABC broadcast the Little League World Series from Williamsport, Pa., "in color," on "ABC's Wide World of Sports" with the great Mickey Mantle providing "expert commentary."

The newspaper account from Aug. 27 mentioned that teams from more than 6,100 leagues in 31 countries competed in "state, sectional and regional tournaments" for the chance to be one of the elite eight in Williamsport.

The article noted that many Little League graduates ascended to the ranks of the major leagues, including Carl Yastrzemski, Tom Seaver, Boog Powell, Reggie Jackson, and Dave McNally.

Mantle himself was connected with youth baseball, the article mentioned, with his interest shown "by the creation of the Mickey Mantle Little League, with teams in Los Angeles, Atlanta, Dallas and other major cities."

Needless to say, my team Little League from River Park in Chicago didn't join this select company in Williamsport.

We did, however, make it to our version of Williamsport, Chicago's Thillens Stadium, where, as the dusty trophy on my shelf attests, my Apex team finished in third place.

The game wasn't televised. There was a PA announcer. Mickey Mantle didn't show up.

My team didn't have any Powells or Yastrzemskis. At second base, I was certainly no Mike Andrews or Glenn Beckert. I was serviceable, usually able to field a ground ball and occasionally lucky enough to catch a pop-up.

One thing I never really learned was how to hit a baseball, a feat just slightly more attainable than solving the Rubik's Cube.

Which made the occasions when I did get a hit all the more memorable.

I was lucky enough to have my grandfather, a locksmith who lived nearby, on hand for one of then. It filled me with pride to hear him talk about it with my family afterward in his Albany Park bungalow.

But mostly, I tried to find other ways to get on base, because one thing I did possess was speed (maybe we should have taken Charlie Finley's cue and had a designated runner. I would have been River Park's version of Herb Washington).

In the days before the sabermetric obsession with on base percentage, a walk certainly was as good as a hit for me.

And during one game, when the other team's pitcher was hitting every batter in sight, I took my cue.

Standing at the plate, I steeled myself, much as I later did waiting for my COVID vaccine. Sure enough, I got plunked in the hip. My efforts were rewarded when I came around to score that inning.

Another time, we were facing another pitcher who was a bit more skilled. I came up with the brilliant idea of bunting for a hit. One problem with that, though. My coaches had never worked on that skill with me. I'll leave you to guess the result.

The beauty of the River Park League - and Little League in general - was that anybody could play. In a sense, this was every kid's big league.

In fact, my first team was called Lucky Starr, a group that would have made the Bad News Bears look like the 1927 Yankees.

Another great thing was it really brought me and my dad, Max, together. One of my treasured memories is of him hitting me grounders at a local park.

I had blond hair at the time, which reminded him of a ballplayer named Blondy Ryan, so when he hit the ball to me, he would yell, "C'mon, Blondy."

It also fostered at least one lifelong friendship, even though my friend Brandon lives in California. I still recall how his dad would pick us up from games. The Corvette only had two seats, so one of us had to sit between the seats. No onerous seat belt laws in those days.

The River Park League had such stalwart teams as Allin's Paints. One ad I looked at reminded readers that "All paints are not created equal."

We had real uniforms, including the stirrups, which gave us the feeling of real baseball players, something we would never be.

The coaches, such as they were, didn't really teach us the game. They basically filled out the lineup cards and yelled encouragement.

Not surprisingly, one of them had a tendency to start his not terribly talented kid. Hey, it was Chicago.

But despite the paucity of instruction, I gained a real appreciation for baseball and the skill of the big leaguers.

After the games, we would head to the ice cream parlor at Lawrence and Kedzie. Years later, a trumpet-playing friend and I would visit that same space, only this time it was a Mediterranean restaurant. Nowadays, I prefer kebabs to ice cream cones.

At season's end, we would take the team picture.

Not every memory is tinged with a nostalgic glow. A collision with an opponent resulted in my braces getting rearranged - the teeth would survive even though the nerves were damaged.

And that final game at Thillens is also a bit tarnished. My usually reliable fielding of grounders failed me on a couple of key plays, which led to some razzing from teammates. And wouldn't you know it, that's the game where I finally figured out how to hit, getting an extra-base knock.

I can understand how today's big leaguers like to have the clubhouse TV tuned to the Little League World Series. It takes them back to a time when baseball was played for its pure enjoyment.

The same way that battered trophy on the shelf reminds me of the joy of putting on a uniform. The blue and silver relic is surmounted by the figure of a batter in his hitting stance. Fittingly, the bat has broken off.