The day we all grew up a little bit.
This is how I recall that day. Could have been 1973, or 74, or no later than 75. It was the era of our Dad’s original walk to Fenway to raise money for the Jimmy Fund.
Some of these memories might not represent the best parenting decisions, but those were different times. Our Dads were solid guys…. upstanding citizens, and good family men. We (as kids) did not wear seatbelts…we sat in the beds of pick-up trucks…rode hundreds of miles backwards in station wagons…played outside unsupervised by our parents …ran loose in the streets, on ballfields, in the woods, and in dozens of backyards, on our own and free until the streetlights came on. Bicycles (with no helmets), skateboards, firecrackers and caps, jarts (yes, jarts - you kids can google it.), metal playgrounds – built on either asphalt or crushed rock - that would scorch you in the Summer time…it was, essentially the Wild West. And we loved it.
So, picture this -
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Every year the Sunset Park Little League would
take a bus full of Little Leaguers and coaches to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park.
o
Here is a real life photo of one of those teams, from that
approximate era. I am sure a few of these kids were on this trip. I know one
was for sure…and if he reads this, he should remember what is to follow in this story as
well. If this picture doesn’t scream this is the 70’s, then nothing does.
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We always sat in the left field blue wooden
grandstand seats – probably section 32 or 33. The seats closest to the green
Monster and the farthest from the field. Whichever one it was it was where the
Red Sox drunkest (and most loyal) fans congregated. Lots of swearing and
singing and colorful language was in the air in those sections. It was the most
Boston”est” place in all of Boston. It was terribly thrilling for a ten- or
eleven-year-old.
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So, after a game that I do not remember who the
Sox played, or if they won or lost, we piled in the bus for the long ride home.
When you are 10 or 11, two hours is a awfully long time.
·
This is where I start remembering some of the
details of the day a little clearer. Still, I cannot guarantee this is 100%
accurate, but it is how I remember it.
o
First – the bus stops at the Golden Banana. If you
have never heard of it, google (again with the google) the Golden Banana, it still exists. I’m sure it
is a far seedier version than it was in the early 70’s…but then again, maybe
not. Like I said before, different times. The Golden Banana was along a super exciting
(once again, for a ten or eleven year old) stretch of Route 1 in Peabody and
Saugus with famous landmarks such as the Giant cactus sign in front of the Hilltop
Steakhouse restaurant, the leaning tower of “pizza” replica entrance to Prince
Pizzeria , and the infamous orange dinosaur that was the showcase of the
miniature golf course that you sped by on your entry into Boston. This gives you
a bit of the flavor of the neighborhood.
o
This is where it gets a little fuzzy. Somehow,
while the Dads went in to enjoy some of Boston’s Best Adult Entertainment, the
kids were set free.
§
Now, we could have had a chaperone, but I am
betting the chaperone was just the biggest 12-year-old on the bus.
o The Dads must have given us some spending money because we somehow found the Bel-Aire Diner. Maybe a quarter mile down, as I’ve already mentioned, a very busy Route 1 in Saugus or Peabody MA. I do not remember any fatherly advice being dispensed, like, “We’ll meet back here in an hour” or “listen to so and so and do whatever he says” or “Don’t go across the highway”, but I am sure some must have been dispensed. This was decades before cell phones so there was no, “Give us a call if you need anything”.
o
Now picture tables full of preteen boys with
some spending money at this diner. I am sure we did not have a ton of cash, but, being the early seventies, I am betting a hamburger, fries, chocolate
milkshake, and a piece of pie probably would have run us about $3.00. If I did
not say before, I will now, good times.
o
After our meal and feeling a little inspired by
our freedom, we ambled out onto the street, I am picturing a side street that
sort of runs alongside Route 1. Oh, by ambled, I mean in the opposite direction of the Golden
Banana parking lot, where the bus back to Maine was parked and our Dads were being entertained. Quite an image…a
pack of boys from the suburbs of Maine, all wearing their Service Oil, A &
W, Haverty Buick, or Gill’s Pharmacy baseball caps (those might not be exact,
but I got a few of them right).
o
I cannot swear to this but I’m picturing walking
past things like junkyards with guard dogs tied up with metal chains, or piles
of scrap metal behind chain link fences, or the loading docks of heavy
equipment repair shops. Am I painting the picture for you?
o
Anyhow, being pre-teen baseball players, we
somehow sniffed out a baseball field with a game in progress. So, like moths to
a flame, we went and watched. Did we ever watch. This was Boston little league
baseball. Fans in the stands, players in uniform, but I will not swear I
remember any grass on the field. Picture the Bad News Bears movie set in Boston
and not in Southern California.
o
Sizing up the crowd, I’d be willing to bet that some
of the fans that we were sitting with in the grandstands at Fenway were now at this
game as well, or maybe it was just a coincidence that we were surrounded by
Sully’s, Timmy’s, Smitty's, Mickey’s, Billy’s, and Matty’s in both places. Maybe it was
also a coincidence that a lot of the language we heard at Fenway was the same
language we were hearing here…and maybe it is customary to drink in the stands
at little league games in Boston. Who knows, but it was the best place to be if you were looking for some excitement on a Sunday in the early seventies.
o
This is where the details blur, but I swear this
happened. There was some excitement on the field, I’m sure instigated with a
perceived a bad call by the ump, and things started to get a little heated.
Coaches arguing with the umps, the umps arguing with the other coaches, players
arguing with the other players, bat boys hollering at the other bat boys, kids
sitting unattended in station wagons arguing with other unattended kids in the
backs of station wagons, groups of kids and adults in clusters on the infield
in one loud dispute with anyone they could get in front of, all with that
awesome Boston accent…”That was a wicked bad call”…”Are you numb, he was
bookin’ it to first and was safe by a mile”...”You can’t bang a U-ie on second
base, that ain’t right”…”Hey ump, is that a grinder in your cup?” and other
hostile type expressions that my Maine ears had never had the pleasure of hearing
being strung together out loud before.
o This was not just on the field; the crowd was getting into it as well. At that point someone, and then everyone, decided they were not letting no six-foot-high cyclone fence around the field get in the way of where the action was. Before our little South Portland eyes could believe it, anyone over the age of five was out of the stands and on the field. I did not know it had a name at the time, but this was the first time I ever saw an honest to God donnybrook. Pushing, shoving, fists flying, pig piling, shirts getting pulled over the heads, bats getting thrown, coolers used as weapons, bloody scrum. It was a bona fide melee.
o
This was some big stuff for a bunch of kids a
mile away from any adult they knew and over 100 miles from home. If anyone had
told them when they were climbing on the bus on that fine Sunday morning, that
this was how they were going to end their day, they would not have believed
you, but not one of them would have said no thanks and not stepped on that bus.
o
Sorry, there is no grand finale on this, that is
the last I remember of the day. A little anti climatic I know. I don't remember how the skirmish ended, if there was an ambulance involved, or if and how many police showed up. Wish I did. Somehow, we made it back to our fathers, or
perhaps they found us. None of that is important. We had survived the Great
Peabody Little League Battle Royale and lived to tell all our classmates the
next day, and probably the rest of the week, if not the entire Summer. As well as creating a somewhat foggy memory that I still can't shake nearly fifty years later. Thanks for allowing me the opportunity to get it in writing so now it can live on in perpetuity....or at least until the internet is still a thing.
o Now, doesn’t that make you miss, or wish you grew up in, the 70’s?
