Bernard Regan looks as if he's going to burst. He grinds his teeth, scrunches up his eyes and twists his face as he teeters
on a low curb, a most determined eight-year-old. Up and down he bounces, one-two, one-two, one-two.
Bernard bites his tongue, leans back, all stiff, and raises a pudgy hand. He's gripping a baseball protectively wrapped
in black electrician's tape. He takes a deep breath and, finally, he pushes the misshapen ball toward a concrete wall directly
across the narrow brick street.
A white square is painted on the bluish gray wall, at precisely the height of a first baseman's outstretched mitt. Well,
not a real first baseman, not one of those real big guys like the San Francisco Seals' Ferris Fain, but as high as Angelo
Sapio's mitt, and he's over five feet tall!
The wall fronts a basement that stretches across the space below the Regans' third-floor flat and our second-floor flat
next door near the top of Rose Street, three blocks of steep alley that run straight down to where Market Street cuts across
at an angle and heads deep into downtown San Francisco.
Thunk. Bernard's throw hits a good two feet beneath the neat white square, and I dash over to pick up the ball as it rolls
down the hill, pathump, pathump, pathump.
"My turn, my turn!"
I back up to the curb, take squint-eyed aim and -- boy! -- the ball goes wobbling right into the square. I leap forward
to scoop up the ball as it bounces erratically off the dusty red surface of Rose Street, make a quick sighting and, damn,
toss it way off to the right of the square.
Bernard's turn again ... then mine again ... then his and mine. We keep it up even after the sun goes down, even after
the white square has grown gray under the dim street light, and we do it night after night, Bernard, me, often three or four
You have to practice all the time, you know, if you're going to be a professional.
* * *
Others delivered newspapers, helped in the backrooms of grocery stores and did the other things kids usually did to help
struggling families in those economically-troubled times of the early 1940s. But not the kids on Rose Street. We worked all
right -- but we worked at Seals Stadium, home of the Pacific Coast League baseball's San Francisco Seals.
Those dark green wooden seats were hard, the striped cushions rented cheaply to fans were soft, and it required whole
gangs of young boys to gather them up after the games. Dozens of us would scramble up and down the concrete steps of the stadium
and dash along the rows of seats snapping up cushions, often out of each other's grasp, driven to a competitive frenzy by
the reward awaiting us. Ten cents each we got -- plus passes to future games -- but only if we worked hard enough and fast
enough to grab off enough cushions to satisfy a sharp-eyed supervisor in the crisp black and orange uniform of the Seals'
The supervisor's name was Red Haas, who was even more than a source of dimes and passes. He was a baseball manager!
Red operated at Big Rec, a sprawling field in Golden Gate Park that swarmed year-round with players of all ages. Under
the pecking order, the older guys, those who played on real semi-professional teams -- some for professional teams, even --
had full and sole command of the two baseball diamonds. We were relegated to the far corners of the outfield, where the master
was Red -- in his twenties, but not good enough to be welcome among the real players on the diamonds.
* * *
We stand eagerly on the grass of Big Rec -- hoping oh, how we're hoping -- as Red Haas, broad and dumpy, swaggers slowly
among us, his dirty corduroy pants going swoosh, swoosh. His arms are folded and he's chewing on his lower lip, a man on a
very serious mission. Finally, Red snaps his wrist toward our ranks.
"You -- yeah, you in the red cap ... and you,the guy in the blue hat, get over here ... and you...."
Red pairs off the chosen ones far a game. As usual, Red's going to catch for one of the teams, as the cleanup batter and,
of course, manager.
Some of the kids who didn't get picked stick around, looking all pouty; but most of them go over to the diamonds where
the people who hang out at Big Rec all the time are watching the older players. The only grownup watching us is Red's mother.
She keeps yelling, like she always does. "Norman," she hollers -- Norman, that's what she calls Red --"smack
* * *
Red made up for the lack of spectators at his game by getting us some attention in the local newspapers. The city's four
daily papers regularly carried extensive coverage of sandlot and semi-pro baseball, based mainly on reports from team managers,
and Red called the papers after every game. That almost always resulted in at least a box score, with Red invariably listed
as having gotten three, four, sometimes five hits.
Our names all there in a row, one after another, each of us with his own position in the field and place in the batting
order, each with a specified number of times at bat, and hits, and runs scored, each with a record of his own -- those box
scores, the neat little columns of statistics, gave each of us a history and an identity, and gave a sense of order and precision
to the games that was never evident on the field.
We'd lurch at pitches over our heads or down at our ankles, or far to the right or far to the left of the satchel that
served as home plate; we'd dash toward a base -- a shirt or coat laid on the grass -- and find it had blown away; we'd stumble
and sometimes fall as we chased after batted balls, lucky if we caught half of them, luckier still if we threw out a runner
in less than two bounces to first base.
But when we saw the box scores in the papers, we knew we had been real players in a real baseball game like at Seals Stadium.
We were somebody.
Copyright © Dick Meister