The Greatest Day in Baseball

The Greatest Day in Baseball

by Lisa Marie Crane

Many Years Ago

Play ball! Those words (often thought to be the last two words of our national anthem) conjure images of peanuts, hotdogs, lazy summer afternoons, home runs, and stolen bases. Fans roar or jeer as hometown heroes round the bases or drop a high fly ball.

Autumn brings the finale of the season — the World Series. Die-hard fans camp out in front of the TV or dig into their life savings to buy a ticket. Old-timers remember the greatest games, series, or players from their youth: the Miracle Mets, the ’55 Dodgers, Joe DiMaggio, Sandy Koufax, or the Phillies (do you remember) of 1980.

Yes, big-league baseball thrills many a fan but the game the goes down in my Hall of Fame was played on an old grass field in a Little League park by a bunch of kids in scruffy uniforms fielding with their fathers’ gloves. And the greatest player of all time is my brother Joe.

Joe ate, drank, and slept baseball. He could quote statistics back to the first-ever league game. Baseball greats decorated the walls of his room and his card collection was his pride and joy. Greatest games? He’d give you the play-by-play. Greatest players? Joe knew everything from their earned-run averages to their mothers’ maiden names. 

Joe carried an old red transistor radio everywhere with him. I’ll never forget sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the Great South Bay fishing — my father and I reading our books, and Joe with his ear glued to the radio hoping to pick up the faint static of the Phillies playing the Mets.

To put it simply, Joe loved baseball.

Now Joe played baseball too. From the Minors to the Majors to the Seniors in Little League, he never missed a game. Standing out on that crabgrass field talking it up, Joe was in heaven.

There was only one problem: Joe lacked the natural talent necessary for immortality. In other words, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. That never stopped Joe. He gave his all playing right field for six years, stepping up to challenge the pitcher and swinging at those impossible pitches. His teammates dubbed him “Joltin’Joe.” Once in awhile, he’d get a walk, but mostly he went down swinging. 

I was the designated fan in my family that year. Dad was managing my brother Paul’s team in the Majors and Mom was home with the little kids. I sat in the stands at either brothers’ game, looking up from my book when Paul pitched or when Joe got up to bat.

It was a typical game. Joe played right field and kept the statistics from the bench. My friend Barbara and I chatted in the stands checking out the local talent (we were fourteen). The seventh inning came and Joe was on deck. Barbara and I and the rest of the six or seven fans glanced up to see who was up and went back to our conversations. It was only Joe. He’d either walk or strike out — nothing to get excited about.

Joe took a couple of practice swings then stepped into the box. The pitcher tossed a good one right over the plate. He wasn’t worried. It was only Joe. Joe sized it up and swung, and, for the first time, connected with the ball. It sailed high over his head and into foul territory.

“Strike one,” called the umpire.

Barbara and I looked up at the crack of the bat. Could it be that Joe had finally hit one?

“Way to go, Joe!” we cheered. 

This was an event. Joe had hit the ball. The pitcher wound up and lobbed another. CRACK! Joe smacked it again! Barbara and I jumped to our feet. The rest of the crowd looked up. The ball veered to the left and drifted into foul territory. Barbara and I hooted and clapped wildly.

The pitcher leaned back and put his arm into the next one. Joe’s team lined up against the fence in the dugout. The ball sailed over the plate where Joe stood ready. POW! The ball doubled back into foul territory again and the crowd went wild.

“Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe!” the crowd chanted.

Three fouls but Joltin’ Joe was still in the game. Joe bent into his stance. The pitcher glanced at his manager, nodded to his catcher, and hurled the ball. We held our breath. The ball whistled through the air. The Senators hung on the fence. Joe’s gaze held steady. He swung. 

WHAM! Joe smashed the ball with all his might. The ball rocketed over his head, the catcher reached up — and caught it. Joltin’ Joe had fouled out.

It didn’t matter. The crowd roared. Joe’s teammates ran out and slapped him on the back. Barbara and I bounced up and down and hugged each other. After six years of living and breathing for the game, Joe had finally hit the ball.

World Series come and go. Every year brings new heroes and miracle plays. But when it comes time to vote for the most valuable player, my vote still goes to Joe — and any other kid who loves the game and gives it all they’ve got. 

So go out and root for the home team, but don’t forget the Little Leaguers living in your house, the kids who give all they’ve got in baseball, ballet, piano lessons, or math. They’re the real Hall of Famers in my book —right up there with Joe.