Zoom w a View: Well, not much of one, really. Strike two!

In order to make my brilliant story about Bobby Hull even brillianter, I returned to the scene of the crime.

I suppose near-crime is a better term, since I nearly hit Mr. Hull’s melon with a 250 mph fastball.

While taking a few photos of the near-crime scene, I realized the ball park, except in memories, was almost gone.


["Two light standards remain. That's it": photos GH]

The bleachers are gone. The team benches are gone. The score shack, once standing above and behind home plate, where I used to sit to help score games, is gone. The band shell in deep right field is gone. The old man who used to work at Pitts’ Hardware and yell at us when a foul ball hit his house is gone.

All that remains from the magic center of baseball, as far as I am concerned, are two light standards.


They are still pointed downward and toward a long-gone playing field.

As if it was yesterday, I remember this oft-repeated scene:

I’d hurry through supper, race from the table, barely say good-bye to my parents and four siblings still seated around a small table in a small kitchen, grab my baseball mitt, fly through the back door and race toward the ballpark one block away.


["My Rawling Holdster still has a fine pocket"]

If I was playing a night game, the lights would be on - what a wonderful, welcoming sight! - and I would tear down the street in my cleats, clicking and clacking all the way, hoping I’d connect and send one over Mr. Haskell’s fence.

With both eyes closed I see my dreams are still as fresh as daisies.

.