Baseballs with Cowboy Hats

Baseballs, for short, was my first foray into non-fiction. I wrote it in the full belief that everything in the story was 100% true. My mom who remembers things differently than I do, advised that this fell more in the realm of Creative Non-Fiction if not outright lying, thus fully back in the fiction category. I lean toward this being closer to CNF than pure fiction, but please don’t tell my mom I said that. Either way, I got a kick out of this piece and got my first personalized hand-written rejection that was very nice and offered some alternatives until Aethlon caught it and published it in their second issue of 2022.

Baseballs with Cowboy Hats

The Rangers had a rough go of it in the early 80s. They couldn’t seem to keep a manager for more than a season, and in 1982 they chalked up an ignominious 9-20 record by mid-May. My family was not doing much better. Mom had steady work, but my dad was grappling with the beginnings of a drinking problem and consistently between opportunities. The country was still in a recession and so my folks were struggling to make ends meet.

Obviously, my parents were not consulting me on their money troubles. I could provide little feedback at just six years old. But here’s a secret I struggle to remember as a parent: Kids pick up the vibe of the house. Money troubles? They can feel the worry every time you talk about needing groceries. Mom and dad not getting along? Kids catch a whiff of that conflict. Money troubles are a precursor to a cornucopia of marital issues. Still, I was lucky, there was never violence in the house. We weren’t destitute, but we were struggling. Just like the Rangers.

We lived in Mesquite, a stone’s throw from Arlington where the Rangers played. Regardless of how the team was doing, my dad made it a priority to catch at least part of the game on the television, always with beer in hand. The cliché of a dad sitting in his recliner with his sixer watching the game is an old one, but I must say it is one of the purest examples of life imitates art imitates life.

My dad and grandfathers had similar setups. My maternal grandfather had a shop. This was an outbuilding built beside his house that stored all manner of mechanical bits and minutiae. Imagine a two-car garage, filled to the rafters with all the parts to build the two cars just littered around the area. Then add a fridge, a potbellied stove, an office chair, and about four of the most uncomfortable wooden chairs you could find. When not out working, Gramps sat in his shop holding court. I only ever found him in the house eating supper or sleeping. So, every visit, there he sat, beer in hand, watching the game. My paternal granddad was a sailor. He owned a sailing shop, where the equipment was dusty, but the drinks were cold. He had his television setup in his Sales office. Anytime you walked in, he’d be behind the counter watching the game. If you looked closely behind one of those cases, you’d find his Pearl Light sitting somewhere back there as well. One of the benefits of working for yourself, I suppose.

Dad had his recliner in the living room. He was posted up in his usual spot one evening early in that ’82 season when we heard those words that are a joy to kids but can be dire to a pocketbook.

“Hey, kids,” the announcer boomed, “do you want to come see your Rangers play?”

What’s that? I looked up from my action figures on the coffee table. You’ve got my attention, Mr. sir, please go on.

“For free?”

Well, he said the magic words. Dad sat up straighter in his chair and we listened to the announcer tell us the details. It was apparently sponsored by the local station, KXAS back then, and the announcer said the rules were simple:

“Write a letter to the address on your screen, along with a self-addressed stamped envelope about why you love your Texas Rangers. And you just might win two tickets to a game this summer. Ask your parents for help, but we really want to hear from you, our little Rangers.”

Now remember, in the early 80s it was difficult to find anything to love about the Rangers. Maybe that’s why the contest was aimed at kids. A child still has those rose-colored glasses; the glass is half full and they can find something to like in almost anything. Remember Bozo the Clown? That guy was terrifying, but I loved him as a kid. Kids can forgive a lot.

I was a strapping six-year-old at this point but had never seen a live Major League game. No man my age with his druthers should have to admit he never attended a baseball game. It was a rite of passage, a step in becoming a man and very important for my athletic development. I was just as eloquent and poetic with my father as well.

“I wanna go, daddy!”

“Well, son, we’ll have to write a letter. You’ll need to sit back and think what you really like about the ball club.” His accent gave everything a lazy East Texas drawl that always made his words sound easy and laidback. He thought for a moment while taking a gulp of beer.

“Who’s your favorite player o –”

“I like the picture!” I interrupted.

“Huh? The pitcher?” He replied. My parents were originally from East Texas, so we all had that thick accent: Going became goin’, pens and tens became pins and tins, and when I said picture, it came out “pitcher.”

“No! The picture,” I said, pointing to the wall to indicate what I meant. How dare he not understand such a well-spoken boy.

In those days the Texas Rangers had a logo of a cowboy hat resting on top of a baseball. This was the epitome of classic art in my eyes. When watching a game or a commercial, they would hit the ball, and it would fly toward the screen wearing that cowboy hat and I thought it was the bee’s knees. I was too young to associate the team with the actual Texas Rangers law enforcement. I just loved the idea of a baseball with a cowboy hat. I mean come on, who wouldn’t love it. Even today, I’m a fan of that logo. The marketing team could still get some juice out of that creative berry.

After some back and forth I successfully explained what I meant, at which point my dad noted, “That’s great, son, but I think they’re looking for something a little more –”

“A little more what?” my mom asked, walking in. Apparently, we rarely let the old man finish his sentences.

“Didn’t that thing say for kids? Well, you just heard it right from the horse’s mouth, as they say.”

“I’m not a horse,” I stated, making what I felt was a keen observation. It was ignored.

“Yeah but, son, isn’t there anything about the team playing that you like? Something more specific?”

“I like the picture and I like the gloves. They’re like mine!” I held up my little left-handed glove to show what I meant. It was exciting that I had the same equipment the big leaguers used. I kept that glove but neither of my kids turned out to be lefties.

“I think that settles it,” my mom said. “I’ll get you some paper. Leon, you help him with the spellin’ but do notwrite it for him.”

Mom had spoken. She never cared much for watching the game, but she was the boss and that was that. We wrote the letter that night while finishing the game; the Rangers lost to Cleveland.

I could write, but my technique did not respect any lines on the paper. My scrawl was large, uneven and went more diagonal than horizontal. But it was legible. I signed my name, and my father handled the addresses. Mom put on the stamp and mailed it the next day on her way to work. It was a family effort. The letter read:

“I saw on tv you want to know what I love about the Rangers. I love their logo the hat on the ball. I also love their gloves; I have one too. Daddy says I can bring it if we get tickets.”

Two months later – this seems incredibly fast, but my mom has since confirmed it – we received a letter back. It would be poetic to tell you the letter stated “thanks for your submission but we’re going to pass,” and that the experience brought the family together and it was something I never forgot. But somehow that ridiculous submission won us two tickets to a game.

I was ecstatic; a Top 10 moment to this day. The feeling was close to what I felt when holding my daughter for the first time. Not only was I going to my first baseball game, but I had won the tickets myself. Since then, I have spent a good portion of my life writing and submitting and learned those wins are few but rewarding. There are many more “thanks for your submission” responses out there than that little boy would ever believe.

My dad handled the logistics and we ended up with tickets to see the Detroit Tigers at the Rangers. My mom was excited for us but not interested in going, which was lucky since we only had the two tickets, and they were not splurging on a third. Dad told me it was the first game of a double header. I was stunned and excited – two baseball games in one day! Alas, it was not to be. Our tickets were only good for the one game. You can’t win ’em all, and it did not dampen my spirits as game day approached.

Saturday, July 10, 1982 broke clear and mild for a Texas summer. Low 70s in the morning with a high of 95. Arlington Stadium was situated next to the Six Flags over Texas theme park, and while parking was a breeze compared to parking for Globe Life Park, that did not stop my dad from using his most colorful language as we found a spot.

The stadium was enormous, and the mood in the parking lot was raucous with excitement. You could hear the roar of some of the rides and the screams of their passengers from Six Flags adding to the moment. My dad locked the doors of our little Datsun 5-10 hatch-back – it had louvers to make it cool, don’t you know – and we joined the crowd entering the stadium. I had never been in such a massive place. That first time entering a baseball pantheon, with the smell of the popcorn and sweat and stale beer, was enthralling. Love the game, or like the game; take it or leave it folks too, everyone admits they love a live game because of that atmosphere, those smells and sensations.

We found our bench seats out in far left field. No cover, just the sun beaming down, and I loved it. The sunburn the next day was worth it.

“Not bad, not bad,” my dad commented on our seats. He got a few beers from the vendor walking up the steps, some peanuts and a couple of hot dogs when the guy came by a few minutes later. Give me a Fenway Frank or a minor league Express dog; ballpark hotdogs are the best. He was well over budget before the first pitch was thrown and did not seem to mind. Leave your worries at the door.

My dad was joking with the other folks around us, asking what they thought our chances were. I showed them he let me bring my mitt out to the game. It was a mixed bag of people, but everyone was there for a good time. There was lots of beer, lots of cursing and lots of fun, everything you would expect in the cheap seats. It was a perfect day, and the Rangers still had two more surprises for me.

In the bottom of the first, Larry Parrish hit a grand slam dinger, putting the Rangers on top of the Tigers four zip. They had intentionally walked the batter before him to load the bases and on a 1 – 0 pitch Parrish sent one sailing in our direction. I did not catch the ball. I did not get close to it. My glove was useless that day—much like my short-lived Little League career. However, I did get to see the scramble. I watched as my dad jumped in the melee for his shot at the prize. He came up empty handed as well, but we all applauded the gentleman who had been successful in capturing the homerun ball. It had been amazing, and the rest of the game blew by in a blur. The Rangers went on to top the Tigers in that game in a 6 – 5 victory, nabbing two more runs and only securing the win in the bottom of the ninth.

My first ballgame, and a great one to boot. I was no longer a rookie. In my aged six-year-old opinion, no other game would top that one. A bold statement tested over the years with highlights like catching a ball pitched by Charlie Hough and fouled off by Bo Jackson and taking my daughter to her first Red Sox game at Fenway. They are all great stories from a great game, but I’ll save those for another day.