Chapter 12: Kittenball

We called it "kittenball" in those days.  For what reason I never thought to ask and still have not discovered.

But it was softball, the twelve inch variety with the fast, underhand pitch.  We played a lot of that in country school.  Baseball, the nine inch variety played by major leagu­ers, would come later in high school, and to a limited degree, in post-high school and college.  Kitten­ball was ideal for children, not only because it wasn't as hard as the baseball, but because it didn't require as large a playing field.  The one-acre school grounds which were typical of Iowa rural schools in my day were just large enough to contain a softball play­ing field and small enough so that 7th and 8th graders could sometimes hit one over the fence for a homerun.  Al­though I believe that in our rules, since the fence was a mere single cable strung through evenly spaced wooden posts, we never regarded hitting one over it as an automatic homer­un.  The batter would have to earn everything he got, and the fielder would duck under the cable and try desperately to retrieve the ball from the ditch and throw it home before the runner could circle the bases.           

Nevertheless, hitting it over the fence was something of a feat that didn't occur frequently.  

I remember when sister Ruth was in 8th grade she could really clobber the ball and, to the amazement of espec­ially us underclassmen, she would occasion­ally even clout one, not only over the fence, but onto the road beyond the ditch.

           

My first experience with softball was as a first-grader.  For some reason the big kids decided to let us little ones play one day.  I remember batting and finally hitting the ball, whereupon I ran to the pitcher instead of first base.  The older kids, I thought, made much more of that little blunder than it de­served. "Hey, not to the pitch­er!  Over here, Dummy--to first base!  Dontcha know any better?" That ended my softball experience for a while.  But by third grade softball before school, during reces­ses and noon lunch hour was a regular part of my grade school experience.

           

Since the whole school typically had only twelve to sixteen students, most kids above the second grade were in­cluded in the games.  Usually two older players would choose sides by one tossing the bat to the other and then each would alternate going hand over hand up the handle of the bat.  The last one able to get his hand on the bat handle with enough grip to toss it backward over his head would get the first pick.  From there the choices from the first to the last would be virtually predeter­mined.

            

Somewhere in these years, probably about fourth or fifth grade, someone introduced a new variation in our game.  Instead of the traditional diamond shaped infield, a triangular infield was devised consisting only  of 1st base, 2nd base and home plate.  This proved to be a real boon to our game because it required fewer players: A pitcher, catcher, 1st baseman, 2nd baseman and two out­field­ers.

            

One of the highlights of our rural school softball experience would be the inter-school com-petition.  My school, Norway Township District # 3, had occasional rivalries with the "East School" (Dist. # 2), the "North School" (Amsterdam Township # 9), the "West School" (Boone Township # 1) and the "Siemens School" (Boone Township # 6).  Our most frequent competition and greatest rivalry, however, was with the "South School" (Norway Town­ship #4) where the Veldhouse boys attended.  These could be fiercely contested games and closely matched.

In sixth grade a new development occurred: Allstar teams from the different townships would compete against each other for the County championship. 

I remember the tryout for that first township team.  Being only a 6th grader, I didn't regard my chances of making the team to be very good, but I would give it a shot.  As I recall, two teams were formed to play against each other, and from that game the manager would de­termine the selection.

     

It was not a good day.  I was supposed to have gotten a pair of tennis shoes by that time (already into the month of May), but for some reason, I didn't have them yet.  No doubt, I blamed my mother for that inexcusable negligence.  Anyway, I played the game in my ankle-high, slippery, leather-soled work shoes.  I was distressed that I did not play well: my quickness, my running, my fielding were hampered by those slippery shoes on the grass infield.  Then, when the game ended, I stupidly went with Bernard (a non-contender) into the school building, unaware that the manager was going to pick the team right after the game.  When I went back out some 10 or 15 minutes later, all the players were seated around him while he was making the last selec­tions for the team.  In addition to the older players like Danny Veldhouse, a whirlwind pitcher and eighth grader, he had also chosen his brother, my friend Jay, from the South School.  Bob Larson, a class­mate from my own school was also chosen, as were a couple other sixth graders.  Now, Bob was no better than I was, and in my opinion, not as good.  But he made it.  And Jay made it.  And a couple other sixth graders were selected for the reserves.  Desper­ately I tried to make myself very conspicu­ous as the manager made the final selections.  He looked my way, but made no nod.  He didn't even ask my name.  I was passed over!  Not chosen!  Why?  Did he think me slow and clumsy (be­cause of my shoes)?  Did he simply over­look me (because I had not been there when he had started picking)?

            

Whatever the reasons for my being omitted, I was devastated.  Especially now that Jay and Bob and other sixth graders had made the squad, things were put in an entirely different light.  My pride suffered.  Had they not made it either, I would have had no problem.  But they did make it and I did not.  How could I explain that to others?

I went home that night swamped in gloom and embarrassment.  

Then I did something very cowardly which would multiply my misery for two or three weeks to come.  Pa asked me how I did, whether I made the team.  Fumbling for an acceptable answer, I said I made it--"as a substitute."  It was a lie.  No other way to describe it.  Even though I may have held some wispy, remote hope that a couple players would break their legs and that they might need someone else, and I would surely be next in line, I knew without question that I had not been selected in any capacity.  But how could I bear the humiliation of inform­ing my dad that I wasn't good enough, when Jay and Bob and other sixth graders did get chosen?  Besides, Pa would be disappointed too, as I had attempted--frequently, no doubt--to impress him with the notion that I was among the best of players at my tender age.

            

The days came when the team went to play in the inter-township competition, and then on to Clarion where they won the County championship behind the pitch­ing of Danny Veldhouse.  But I know nothing of those games. I wasn't there.  No playe­rs had broken their legs and I wasn't needed or even thought of.  I could, I suppose, have attended the games.  My parents would probably have taken me if the field work was not too pressing.  But no way did I want my parents to know about these games.  Better they should forget the whole thing and spare me the humiliation of exposing my rejection for the team on which I supposedly had been selected as a substitute.  They didn't bring up anything about the team or the games we were to play.  I was relieved to believe it had passed from their minds.  But, a boy's sins have a way of finding one out.  My biggest embarrassment was yet to come.

           

It was the day of the Norway Township end-of-year school picnic in mid-May at which time the eighth graders from the various schools in the town­ship would have their combined graduation ceremony.  It was a warm, sunny day as it always seemed to be when picnics were held.  Renwick park, with the Boone River flowing lazily through it, was dressed in its spring greenery and the hickory trees shaded the outdoor platform where the ten or twelve eighth graders were as­sembled waiting for that moment when they would receive their diplomas. In addition to the gradu­ation itself, the program would in­clude various honors being distributed, a couple of vocal numbers and a short speech by the County Superintendent of Schools, Claude W. Sankey.  Many, if not most, par­ents of the school children in the township would attend this yearly picnic along with their childre­n.  My parents would certainly be there because Ruth was graduating that year.

           

The program began before an audience of 50 to 75 people seated in folding chairs before the stand.  I was sitting in the back row, or possibly standing there behind it.  Superinten­dent Sankey conducted the prel­im­in­aries, a couple of numbers were performed, and then it hap­pened!  Mr. Sankey announced:  "I would like at this time to honor the team from Norway Township which recently won the County Softball Championship."  My heart sank; my face began to flush.  I had hoped my folks, my dad in particular, would have forgotten all about that team that I presumably had been a member of.

            

Sankey went on: "And now, I would like to call the team members up to receive their blue ribbons." Oh no!  It would all come out.  Paul Assink would get no ribbons; his name would not even be men­tioned.  I quietly slipped away from the audience and hurried over to the refreshment stand where I could cover my humiliation amid the people buying ice cream cones and pop, people oblivious to the trauma I was experiencing within.            

How I spent the rest of the day I do not recall. I only remember weakly explaining to my dad that I had been a "back-up substitute", whatever that lie was supposed to mean.  

Pride.  It goeth before the fall.  Or maybe it is the fall.  What an evil monster it is in human life.  Why didn't I just come right out at the start and admit:  "I didn't make it.  I feel real bad."?  But I didn't.  The disappointment would have passed shortly and I could have proceeded to cope with the situa­tion in honesty.  As it was, my suffering was protracted over weeks and compounded with addition­al humili­ation.  And my character was weakened by my failure to accept reality.

    

Looking back on that episode, I can now say that I have learned from it.  But I didn't at the time.  Sadly, that weak­ness would be repeated in my later experiences where, instead of con­fronting situations head on, I would learn to escape pain by avoiding the very situations that might cause the pain.  I'm not proud of that flawed aspect of my development.  But time passes.  Disappointments and embarrassments recede into the background and, while never obliterated and leaving their scars, one is allowed to function again without obvious and crippling impairment.

           

The next year I was in 7th grade.  I don't recall how I was selected, but I made the allstar team this time, apparently without a sweat, and played third base.  I distinctly remember the first game of the tournament: Norway Township against Boone Township.  The Boone team had three of my second cousins on it--Bill, Kenny and Paul Siemens--and a whirlwind pitcher named Mary Knudson--a girl, can you believe it?  We never had girls on our team, regardless of how good they may have been. But, be that as it may, I remember the conclusi­on of the game vividly because we were behind much of the game but were rallying in the last inning.  With two outs, I was on third, Bob Larson was on second and Jay Veldhouse was at bat.  The count went to one ball and two strikes.  Superin­tendent Sankey was umpiring the game.  Knudson got set for her next pitch, whipped it toward the plate.  Jay swung.  From that point on everyth­ing erupted into chaos.  Jay foul-tipped the ball; the catcher dropped it.  We were still alive!  But no.  Mr. Sankey called, "Strike three!"            

The game was over?  We were instantly stunned.  But wait.  

If that was strike three and first base is not occupied, the batter could run to first when the catcher dropped the ball.  Finally, someone said, "Run to first!"  The Boone catcher, mean-whil­e, had already regained control of the ball and now, reassessing the situation, decided that he should tag the batter, which he did.

            "Out" Sankey called, thrusting his thumb upward.  It took a couple of seconds to comprehe­nd the situa­tion.  By then some of the Boone team began their wild celebration of victory, while our team descended on Sankey en masse simil­ar to a modern baseball bench-clear­ing brawl.

            "That was a foul tip!  The batter is not out!  Didn't ya see that?"  We argued des­perately.  We argued vehemently. "If the batter had missed the third strike, why wouldn't he have run immediately?  The catcher didn't tag him at first because he knew it was a foul tip too.  Dontcha see?  That was a foul tip!  --a foul tip, foul tip."

            Sankey stood his ground. Boone was now jubila­nt in victory while gradually the tumult of our futile protests subsided.  Within ten minutes the diamond was clearing and the bitter finality of the decision was setting in.  I remember making one last protest to Mr. Sankey as he was walking away:  "That really was a foul tip."

            Sankey smiled, put his arm on my shoulder and said something to the effect of "Now, now.  It's hard, but you'll get over it."            

He was right, of course, but unlike most incidents in my life, this one has stuck in my memory for over a half century; so maybe he was wrong.  

I often wondered whether Mr. Sankey really didn't know that it was a foul tip.  Did he purposely, knowingly, falsify the call?  I find it hard to believe that he did.  I suspect, but will never know--and it makes little difference--that he called strike three by mis­take, realized that he was wrong but not soon enough to reverse himself with dignity.           

In any case, it was only a game.  But seventh graders are not very philosophical about things as important as winning and losing, especially when winning would allow you to advance to the final round and play for the championship of the county.  

Never mind, of course, that even if he had called it a foul tip, Jay might have struck out on the next pitch, or popped harmlessly to the short­stop, and the game would have had the same result.  But the fact was, in our minds, we could have won and gone on to greater glory had we not been robbed by that call.

Next year, as an eighth grader in the spring of '42, we had another such tournament.  Strangely, I remember little about it.  I remember being the pitcher that year and I remember that we defeated the Boone team easily this time.  I also remember that among the cheering fans for the Norway team there was a tall, good-looking, dark-haired eighth grade girl whose name I discovered was Frances Thompson.  She attended the District # 7 school located in the southeast corner of the township nearer to Clarion.  Frances seemed to be very excited about the game and--interestingly--particularly about my pitching.  I would remember that and the fact that we did make some trivial exchange of conversation after the game.  Beyond that, however, nothing came of it, not for the time being at least.

            

After defeating Boone, the Norway team was supposed to play in Clarion for the County championship.  I draw a blank about that event.  Apparently it never happened; surely I would remember it.  I suspect the day was probably rained out and, because school would end somewhere around the 10th to the 15th of May and the township eighth grade graduation program would be held within a week of that, the event was most likely cancelled.  So, once again, deprived of the opportunity for the supreme glory of a championship, I would ring down my grade school education and the kiten­ball that was so much a part of it.

Read more...
Chapter 11: On the Farm - Fieldwork
Chapter 10: On the Farm - Chores
Chapter 9: On the Farm - Playtimes
Chapter 8: One Room Schoolhouse - Norway Township #3
Chapter 7: 1934
Chapter 6: Amsterdam Township #4
Chapter 5: Birthplace - North Central Iowa 


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