My first real memory of this place is of my friend and teammate Adrian stretching his head and glove toward the sky to catch a fly ball during warm ups, only to misjudge the ball and have it strike him directly in the throat. He collapsed to the ground, grabbed his throat and gasped for air. I was convinced he was dead. Fortunately he wasn’t. Technically I have earlier memories from t-ball but, just like the score in t-ball, they don’t count since I only really remember what I’ve seen in pictures. It’s unfortunate that this is my first memory because I have so many wonderful memories from my years at Exchange Park, and tonight, sitting in the bleachers watching my dad umpire a game, all of them are coming at me in waves.
Seven of the first twelve years of my life revolved around those two baseball fields located across the street from the Care Apparel Plant. When I was six my daddy signed me up to play t-ball and he, along with Tom Coffee, coached our little group of shaggy haired, snaggletoothed co-eds. The next year I played for Sun-Drop, and the year after that, at age seven, is when the real baseball began.
In those days the age where we wore real uniforms, faced real pitchers, and kept score, was called minor league. For the next two years I played for Stewart’s Tires, which was owned by Hal Stewart, a giant of a man who coached my daddy when he was playing little league at this same park. It was during those days that my daddy drew the nickname “Smiley” because he would walk back to the dugout smiling even if he struck out. Once again daddy was my coach, along with Charlie Garrett, whose son Jeff, would be my teammate for the next seven years. Through seven seasons, and three teams in three leagues, Jeff and I played short stop and second base respectively. We could practically read one another’s minds by the time we were separated by two different high schools at age fifteen — so much so that the local newspaper actually wrote an article about our careers together. My daddy and Charlie would alternate being manager and coach of all those teams, resulting in seven league championships. His absence from their park hall of fame is a travesty.
Oddly enough, my favorite memories of Exchange Park aren’t of the games themselves, but the community that populated the park. A horde of children chasing a foul ball, their passion being stoked by the war drum like cadence of the press box announcer imploring, “Please return that foul ball to the concession stand.” Each of us hoping to emerge from the melee unscathed and able to lift the ball triumphantly overhead like spoils of war. For that brief moment we were conquistadors returning to the monarchy with treasure, receiving our bounty from the concession stand in the form of a free Coke or Snow Cone.
A single Coke might seem like a small token, but for us it was the nectar of the gods — a fountain Coke, with no ice, served in a wax covered paper cup. Once the beverage was drained those cups were recycled into a magical orb known as a cup ball. Speaking of the cups, most of us just wanted to get the formal game over so we could join the ocean of boys playing cup ball at the western end of the bleachers. If you aren’t familiar with the game it’s pretty simple: imagine baseball played with a crumpled up cup for a ball, your hand for a bat, and the ability to get the runner out by throwing the cup ball at and hitting him — the harder the better. Unlike the games being played on the diamond fifteen feet away — the one with uniforms, equipment, and an actual rule book — in this game there were no umpires, no coaches, and no parents. It was like a scene from the Lord Of The Flies, where there was only a few unspoken rules, and mob democracy reigned — at least until our mommas told us we had to go home. Like a emerging nation parliament, there was a lot of yelling, sometimes pushing, and occasionally an all out brawl, but somehow we managed to maintain order and continue with the game at hand — at least until “the man” tried to regulate our grassroots game. I’m pretty sure that my first act of pre-teen rebellion was defying the blockade announced by the “no cup ball” sign erected by some league official. Fight the power. Speaking of fighting....
Not all memories of Exchange Park are happy ones, like the one where my dad got mauled by a Bear. During my second season of Little League, circa 1987, I was playing for the team which bore the same name as the park. My daddy was the manager, and we were in the midst of an incredibly rare feat, finishing a Little League season with a perfect record, 17-0. Winning typically cures all ills, but that’s not always the case in youth sports. At this stage of the game no one is making any money, so the currency of the sport is playing time — which every parent believes is the birthright of their child. On one particularly hot summer night, a disgruntled parent sat on the tailgate of his truck and loudly berated our coach from behind the left field fence. After securing the victory, my daddy made his way out to the parent and asked him what was his complaint. Despite his two hour tirade of my daddy, this mountain of a man apparently believed actions speak louder than words and decided to attack my daddy. The ruckus didn’t last very long, probably not even a minute, but what I remember is my five foot, nine inch, one hundred and seventy pound daddy held his own with a man literally twice his size — which is saying something when you consider that his nickname was Bear and my daddy’s was Smiley.
Tonight I realized that some things never change around here. It’s still called Exchange Park, although now there are three baseball diamonds instead of two. The old Care Apparent Plant is still there, though now it is some other industry. The old man Mr. Bee who used to hang out at the park most nights is long gone. So is Charlie Garrett, and Tom Coffee. Few boys are roaming the park unattended — most of them are sitting in the bleachers on their smart phones — and the ones who are have likely never heard of cup ball. The parents still gripe and yell like they had money on the game, and with private coaches, custom uniforms, and high tech bats, they certainly have a lot of money invested in it. And my daddy is still getting yelled at by the parents, only now it’s not about playing time, but balls and strikes as he umpires the game he successfully coached for so many years. Tonight stirred up a lot of memories that I wouldn’t exchange for a million dollars....but I might trade a few for a snow cone.
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