When Little League Baseball Came to Town
When Little League Baseball Came to Town
By L. J. Morrow
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I pound the ball into the pocket of my leather glove, a Warren Spahn model, impatiently waiting for Charlie Quinlan and his mom to arrive. Baggy dungarees and a loose white T-shirt hang off my scrawny frame. A Boston Braves cap covers my cropped brown curly hair. Our town, located thirty miles south of Boston, is starting a new baseball program, something called Little League, and this Saturday morning in the spring of 1951 is the initial tryout.
The Quinlan’s 1948 Ford Woodie, pulls into our driveway. I open the door and slide in next to Charlie.
“Hey L.J., got your registration form?”
“Yup. Hmm…smells like you oiled your glove last night. Me too!”
I caress the soft material of my mitt. The one I bought with money saved for months from my weekly allowance. The one I’ve slept with every night, a scuffed baseball nestled in the pocket, secured with a rubber band.
At the playground, Charlie and I burst out of the car. A pert young woman seated behind a card table takes the envelope containing my registration and $5.00 tryout fee. I lope onto the field to join the other kids. Eventually a whistle sounds and a stern-looking man waves us in. We line up along the backstop, a wiggling centipede of nervous, excited kids.
“Hi guys, I’m Mr. Anderson, one of the coaches. Our league will have four teams: Red Sox, Braves, Yankees, and Dodgers. Your registration fee will cover a full uniform.”
My eyes widen as the coach digs out a sample from one of four cardboard boxes and holds it up: creamy white flannel knickers with red piping along the seams and elastic at the knees; matching shirt, with additional piping on the sleeve edges, around the collarless neck and down the front on either side of the buttons; red stirrup stockings; red wool cap. The thought of wearing a real baseball uniform sends an excited shudder through my shoulders.
“Today’s tryout is so we can form evenly divided teams. Everyone will make one of the teams. No one will get cut.” I scan the field for sharp objects, but I don’t see anything I might cut myself on.
“I can’t be on the Yankees, mister,” shouts a kid. “My dad hates ‘em.”
Mr. Anderson and the other three coaches chuckle and direct us to count off by fours. The man leading my group, Mr. Venti, claps me on the head with his meaty hand and says he’s a Braves fan too. I’m glad he’s going to be my coach for the morning.
We split up to play catch. Charlie is my partner. As we move farther and farther apart, Charlie’s round cheeks flush red and he has trouble getting the ball to me on the fly. When Mr. Venti grabs a bat, we take turns fielding grounders and pop-ups. I’ve practiced this a lot with my dad and I don’t miss any. Next we back way up to catch fly balls. That’s a little harder, but I only drop one.
Running drills follow fielding practice. We sprint back and forth between two pairs of cones. My heart a drum thudding deep inside me. Usually I’m among the first three finishers; once I come in first. Charlie looks like he might throw up. On the long-distance run around the field, most kids start off fast, but I remember what Dad taught me—slow and steady. I’m the first one to make it all the way around. When I look back, some of the guys are walking.
A whistle trills. Break-time. We drink from a bubbling fountain and flop on the grass. I watch the coaches talking with the lady who took our registration papers and money. Minutes later Mr. Venti trudges over to our group and calls my name.
“Hey L.J., c’mere a sec will ya?”
I trot over. As Coach bends down close to my ear, I notice my registration sheet in his hand.
“So,” he says softly. “What does L. J. stand for?”
“Linda Jean,” I answer. “But I hate my name. Everyone calls me L. J.”
Mr. Venti straightens up and drapes one arm across my shoulders. He looks down at me with sad brown eyes and clears his throat. Kindly he explains that Little League is just for boys. No girls allowed. “You’re a good player; one of the best in my group. I’m sorry, but rules are rules. You can finish out today’s practice, but we can’t put you on a team.”
“Oh, you thought I was a boy?” I ask, my voice small. Mr. Venti nods. For the very first time a thought stings my soul. Being a girl means being ‘less than.’
“But these guys are my friends. We play ball together all the time on the field behind my house.” The tears I’ve been blinking back spill down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” repeats Mr. Venti.
During batting practice, I don’t do so well. My foggy vision makes it hard to pick up the ball approaching the plate. On the ride home I pull the visor of my hat down low to hide my red-rimmed eyes.
“Hey,” chirps Charlie. “That was fun. I hope we’re on the same team.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
He and the rest of the guys will find out soon enough. In 1951 Little League has indeed come to town but the end of free-range baseball has left me on the sidelines.
***
However, things changed when I entered 7th grade that fall. Our little Junior-Senior High School and seven other schools of similar size comprised a competitive sports league with field hockey, basketball and softball for girls; and football, basketball and baseball for boys.
Basketball became my new passion, and while the opportunities for girls and boys weren’t equal—boys had post-season tournaments, and all-star recognition—a format finally existed where my skills as a player were valued and respected. I threw myself into being the best I could be. By my sophomore year, I was a full-time varsity player. On game days, the stands filled and parents, teachers and students praised my “wicked hook shot.” Our teams were good—each year we finished at the top of the standings. My senior year I was elected co-captain. The sting of “being less” faded…at least until adulthood.
As a coed, wife and mother, from the ’60s through the ’80s there were many reminders. Don’t embarrass your date at a football contest by knowing more than he does about the nuances of the game. When your husband returns from work and announces he has accepted a new job 500 miles from the town you’ve called home for the past five years, start packing. Understand that it’s “okay” for you to have a career in public school education but it remains your responsibility to ensure childcare for your three young sons and know you will be the one to stay home from work if one of them is sick.
In 1972 the National Little League Association created a softball program and made the rules and regulations for both baseball and softball non-gender specific. In August, 2021, I watched one of my favorite annual sporting events, the Little League Baseball World Series held each year in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. The announcers gave excessive air time to the highly skilled catcher for Abilene, Texas, Ella Bunting, who became the twentieth girl to play on the hallowed fields of Williamsport. “PROGRESS!” they crowed.
But my guard remains up. Advancements in women’s rights have hardly been consistent. A significant wage gap continues to exist between men and women for the same job. At the 2021 NCAA basketball championships, the embarrassing discrepancy between the training facilities for the men’s and women’s teams went viral. And the current Covid pandemic has sent far more women than men out of the workforce as mothers have assumed the major responsibility for the care and education of home-bound children.
So, yes, progress has been made, but how much? I continue to see women facing inequality everywhere, just as I did in 1951 when my gender—not my skill set—left me on the sidelines.
L.J. Morrow (who these days goes by Linda Morrow) is a born and bred New Englander. Despite a move seven years ago to Bellingham, WA “The City of Subdued Excitement” in the Pacific Northwest, Linda remains a loyal fan of the Red Sox. Author of a recent memoir, Heart of This Family, you can find more information on her website https://lmorrow.com/