By Marie Buckley Fish
We spent five years living and working in Alaska. Lest you think we spent much time huddled by the fire, let me reassure you we did not. We had a great time.
Our son, Stewart played on a Men’s Recreation League baseball team. We had read in the paper that Alaskans take their baseball very seriously. It was a participatory sport with about 400 men and women’s teams taking to the fields in Anchorage that summer.
Stewart, or “Scooter” as he was known in his base stealing days, told us, “Maybe I’ll get to play baseball again before I die.” He was twenty years old.
He signed up to play for the Sky Adventure Knights. They have a team mascot, a behemoth of a dog who looks a lot like a great furry bear. One who strikes terror into the hearts of the more timid of the spectators by ambling toward them to give them a friendly welcome lick.
As we watched the game on the Eve of Summer Solstice, a television crew stopped by to interview Rafael, a former professional player who was playing center field for the S.A.K. Those who watched Channel 13 sportscast might have seen my husband, Scooter and myself for a split second as they panned the field and fans.
As the game went on, the opponents were at bat with the bases loaded and our guys plotted strategy for a double play. The ball was hit solidly toward the pitcher who fielded it with his bare hand, made the play, then walked off the field with blood dripping from his damaged hand.
A relief pitcher was brought in while Greg was driven to the hospital to have fifteen stitches put in his hand.
While our guys were at bat, a pitched ball struck our first baseman and he went down in agony with a possible elbow fracture. The kid who had pitched the night before was in the park in uniform celebrating his twenty first birthday with two friendly girls who didn’t actually seem at all interested in the game.
“Tim, get your spikes on. We need you.”
Team spirit prevailed as Tim came trotting into the dugout, lacing his shoes as he ran to go in for Hector.
Anywhere else the game would have been called on account of darkness, as it got later and later in the evening. Everywhere that we have lived in the Lower 48, there has been a major expense that severely curtails the number of baseball games that can be played, called “lights for the field.” The purchasing thereof, the installation cost, and paying for electricity is a tribulation the gods of Alaska have protected us from with natural lighting during the baseball season. This, however, was fairly early in the season.
The umpire, of course, came in for his share of criticism, some of it justifiably so. A third out was made at second base while a runner from third was a little better than halfway home. The umpire awarded him the run. I was amazed. I had never seen a team score a run after the third out was made but I realized that they’re always coming up with new rules and it’s hard to keep up.
It was a hard-fought game but our guys won 11-7. “Next time I’m bringing the paramedics,” Pete promised the guys as they left to celebrate their victory.
I had to admit that the report was accurate. Alaskans take their baseball very seriously. ISI
