Within the boundaries of the fenced in yard of the neighbor boy and the ultra landscaped property of a Detroit retiree, Mr. Brooks, lay a vacant lot. It was mowed by "Brooksie," the name the girls called him with absolutely no affection . To Brooksie, the group of neighborhood boys and girls were an unruly hoard to be kept off his golf course lawn complete with sprinklers. The TA-TA-TA-pppppppppt sound plus the thrill of venturing into forbidden territory made for an irresistible game of cat and mouse on a hot summer day. The girls would make a mad dash toward the nearest sprinkler head, timing the entry into the refreshing rain drops just as they reached the edge of greenness marking the boundary of his acres of lawn. Eventually the shrieks of joy would alert him of the trespass and waving a fist and with a crotchety angry shout, "Get off my lawn," the game was over for the time being.
Now, some fifty years later, I realize Mr. Brooks gave the children of Clinton Avenue a gift, a vacant lot. The small plot, owner in absentia, grass clipped regularly, was vacant, a vacuum that sucked in the imaginations of a tribe of baby boomers. The girls and boys of Clinton Avenue gathered on neutral ground to form teams, line up wooden plank bases, make their own rules and PLAY BALL!
The boys and girls of Clinton Avenue would gather on this green expanse and choose teams. All would be chosen, even littlest sisters and brothers. One boy, so strong in his upper body that he could go to a handstand on a fence post, had weak and crippled legs. He walked slowly and running was impossible. Down on his hands and knees, he was swifter. Shorter bases were laid down just for him. With a powerful swing he frequently hit home runs.
The rules of the game were frequently up for debate. Who was the home team? One of the two captains tossed the the bat into the air, the other grabbed it somewhere along its length. Hand over hand, up the bat until the last eagle claw on the wooden knob at the end was clutched. This person decided whether they were at bat or in the field. Politely taking turns, teams were chosen. Not enough players? No problem, at bat team supply a catcher, perhaps a designated pitcher for both teams. It didn't matter. We did what ever it took to play ball.
All of the neighborhood kids gathered in this space, the younger siblings, boys, and girls, all preadolescent. In this space the children made memories of cooperation, following the rules, when to bend the rules in the interest of fairness and the friendship that bound it all together. Conflicts arose but were resolved knowing that the alternative would end the game. Each child got a turn at bat, "hey batter, batter....swing!" No umpire to call balls or strikes, each could wait for their sweet pitch. Smaller children were given 4 strikes and the really small got to swing until the ball was hit.
One boy from town who played little league would ride his bike out to play. Happy and goofy this boy fit in with the children and followed our "rules." On the Little League field his play was inconsistent, wildly varying from heroically spectacular to embarrassingly inept. The boys and girls of Clinton Ave. were always happy to see him. He basked in the idolization of the girls young brother. When he appeared to play, he was always chosen first and could hit the ball across Clinton Ave. However, on one memorable occasion he reenacted "Casey at the Bat." One of the girls pitched and when he whiffed the last pitch, the sisters all cheered and hugged. Our "professional" ball player displayed the grace and good humor we all admired and the game went on.
To this day, I do not remember the score of a single game. No parents or adults ever participated. What I do remember is a group of children just being kids learning about life through play. Now I know what a blessing that is. Belatedly, thank you to Mr. Brooks for mowing the grass.
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