In the 1950’s I attended S.S. No. 8 Medora in Foot’s Bay, one of many rural one-room schools scattered throughout Muskoka. In these schools 20 to 30 kids, ranging in age from six to 15 represented most of grades one through eight. Any organized activities in our schools would include the whole student body.
Each spring as soon as the snow was gone from the playground, our teacher Mrs. Brannen would initiate the annual softball games. The first order of business was to divide up the whole school into two teams. These teams of upwards of 15 children each were maintained until school let out for the summer. Two captains (always boys) were chosen and then they took turns picking their teams. One by one the best players would be chosen, then the mediocre players and on down to – me. I was always last. I wasn’t always the smallest kid in school, but I was the most unathletic in land sports. I couldn’t bat, I couldn’t run and I couldn’t catch. (And to tell the truth, I’m still hopeless at this.) It never bothered me, as one would expect because I didn’t know that it should and I didn’t care.
Once a week in the afternoon, weather permitting, we would all troop out to the playground and arrange ourselves for the game. I of course always batted last in the rotation and was an “easy out”. I would usually either fan away at anything or just stand there and hope I got a walk.
In order that I would get a chance to hit the ball once in a while, a sympathetic pitcher would practically throw the ball onto my bat. If I got a hit it was a blooper straight to the pitcher or onto the ground. Sometimes I did get onto first base on balls, but that was it for me unless the next batter (the best one of course) hit a homer and that did happen on occasion. Usually however, I was just a hindrance to him because I couldn’t run fast so he’d only make it to first base and I’d get picked off on my way to second.
When my team was “out in the field” I would chose a position behind one of the biggest boys for protection and then stand around daydreaming or chatting with the next to last person picked, who was usually just that little bit better at sports than me. Sometimes I’d even sit down in the long grass until Mrs. Brannen told me to get up and pay attention.
I got hit in the head by a batted ball once and I knew how much it hurt. In fact, it knocked me to the ground. So, being no fool, if someone hit a ball my way, I would duck and put my hands over my head or even run out of the way. Nobody ever expected me to catch a ball and if I ever retrieved a “grounder” the batter was guaranteed a homer because I could only throw the ball about three feet at most.
You would think, after all this, I would have hated our weekly ballgames. No way! Where else would a kid want to be on a beautiful warm spring day?
By: JK Hannaby
