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Post by inger on Mar 31, 2020 12:02:23 GMT -5
Just after turning eleven years old, my sister and I took our first plane ride from Houston to North Dakota, where my brother was stationed in the US Air Force. As bad luck would have it, the day after we arrived, my brother was placed on alert and was sequestered on base for a week. With my brother gone, there wasn’t much to do (I was the only boy in the house with my sister, sister-in-law, and niece), so I walked to a baseball park nearby where these kids were playing ball. They had enough for two teams but one of the team’s pitchers didn’t show. A few of them walked over to me and asked if I could pitch, and I wanted to play so I said yes. In reality, I had never played organized baseball before and had never thrown off of a mound. I pitched two shutouts that day and had like six hits. They asked if I could show up again tomorrow, and I threw another shutout and had multiple hits. By this time, word had gotten to their coach about this new kid. At some point he drove up and watched me pitch and play. All the kids were lobbying for me to join their team. The coach asked my name and my age. When I told him I was eleven, his eyes widened. “Eleven! When do you turn twelve?” I explained that I had just celebrated my birthday the week before. “What! All of these kids out here are thirteen or about to turn thirteen!” Unfortunately, it turned out that all league teams had already been drafted and established, and I had to return to Louisiana anyway after a couple weeks. I kept playing practice games with them until my brother drove us back home after the base’s alert finally ended. I always enjoyed hitting a baseball, but I fell in love with pitching that summer. On the ride back home, we camped in the Black Hills and saw Mount Rushmore, but the clearest memory was my brother driving us off the airbase in his VW van and passing the baseball field, where all those kids were in uniform about to play a league game. There’s the advantage of living in Houston. You can play baseball 6-7 months of the year. In North Dakota those poor kids got to play “baseball month”... |
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Post by rizzuto on Mar 31, 2020 16:36:57 GMT -5
Just after turning eleven years old, my sister and I took our first plane ride from Houston to North Dakota, where my brother was stationed in the US Air Force. As bad luck would have it, the day after we arrived, my brother was placed on alert and was sequestered on base for a week. With my brother gone, there wasn’t much to do (I was the only boy in the house with my sister, sister-in-law, and niece), so I walked to a baseball park nearby where these kids were playing ball. They had enough for two teams but one of the team’s pitchers didn’t show. A few of them walked over to me and asked if I could pitch, and I wanted to play so I said yes. In reality, I had never played organized baseball before and had never thrown off of a mound. I pitched two shutouts that day and had like six hits. They asked if I could show up again tomorrow, and I threw another shutout and had multiple hits. By this time, word had gotten to their coach about this new kid. At some point he drove up and watched me pitch and play. All the kids were lobbying for me to join their team. The coach asked my name and my age. When I told him I was eleven, his eyes widened. “Eleven! When do you turn twelve?” I explained that I had just celebrated my birthday the week before. “What! All of these kids out here are thirteen or about to turn thirteen!” Unfortunately, it turned out that all league teams had already been drafted and established, and I had to return to Louisiana anyway after a couple weeks. I kept playing practice games with them until my brother drove us back home after the base’s alert finally ended. I always enjoyed hitting a baseball, but I fell in love with pitching that summer. On the ride back home, we camped in the Black Hills and saw Mount Rushmore, but the clearest memory was my brother driving us off the airbase in his VW van and passing the baseball field, where all those kids were in uniform about to play a league game. There’s the advantage of living in Houston. You can play baseball 6-7 months of the year. In North Dakota those poor kids got to play “baseball month”... I didn’t live in Houston. That’s where the cheapest airport was. My dad drove us from Louisiana. It was essentially the same as driving to New Orleans, just westward. Living in the sticks, there was no opportunity to play like those who lived in town. So, even with no snow, they had more baseball than I did, ironically. |
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Post by inger on Mar 31, 2020 16:50:38 GMT -5
Plus, they got to throw snowballs nine months out of the year... (:
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Post by kaybli on Dec 16, 2021 2:42:03 GMT -5
Bumpin some old threads during the lockout. Maybe we get some more participation on this one.
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Post by rizzuto on Dec 16, 2021 4:26:23 GMT -5
You gotta choose one moment as your favorite inger!  If you’re going to put a gun to my head, then I would have say that I enjoy participatory memories over none participatory memories. I’d have to say it was a play I made that my teammates and the opponent that hit the ball were calling “the catch” I made. I was already known as a good fielder with a strong arm when “Bill” hit the ball that day, I was in left field that particular day and I knew Bill to be a pretty strong guy, so was back a couple of steps. The second he made contact I knew Bill had hit the longest shot I had ever seen come of his bat. There was no fence, so if it got over my head, both runners and Bill would all score. The ball was hit directly at me, and I turned and ran as hard as I could, and as straight on the path the ball was hit on. I took one look back to assure I was running on the same path as the ball and to time where I figured I needed to be. I heard the ball sizzling as it went over my head, Never looking. Never slowing down a bit, I thrusted my glove in the air at what I judged to be the right time. I never felt the ball hit in my glove. In fact, I continued to run until I realized that the ball never got past me. It was safely in my glove for the third out. After that play I could often hear the opponents (often it was Bill) say, don’t hit the ball to Ingerson. He catches everything out there. That’s a pretty good feeling to hear that. And it makes the memory more than just a single moment in a way. Bill was killed in his early twenties. He got a nice-paying job as an electric lineman. He touched a 20,000 volt line one day and died instantly. We were on and off friends, sometimes enemies and even co-workers for a while. He lived life full out and took it full on. To here him as one that was cheering for me when playing with me and against me when playing against carried so much more sincerity than to here them from someone who was fully vested as a friend. So there. You made me pick one. I think you can tell it was and remains a moment that was about more than baseball. That was just some hi school guys playing a game, but 50 years later, it’s still way more than a catch. There was a lot of life tied in with it, and that is more of what makes it such a special moment. It ties my favorite sport in with life, and memorializes my opponent at the same time. I have a similar moment with golf, but not right now... Okay, Inger, time for you to relate the golf moment with us. We’ve waited for 21 months. Where’s the popcorn emoji? Oh well, another cup of tea.  |
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Post by inger on Dec 16, 2021 11:45:15 GMT -5
If you’re going to put a gun to my head, then I would have say that I enjoy participatory memories over none participatory memories. I’d have to say it was a play I made that my teammates and the opponent that hit the ball were calling “the catch” I made. I was already known as a good fielder with a strong arm when “Bill” hit the ball that day, I was in left field that particular day and I knew Bill to be a pretty strong guy, so was back a couple of steps. The second he made contact I knew Bill had hit the longest shot I had ever seen come of his bat. There was no fence, so if it got over my head, both runners and Bill would all score. The ball was hit directly at me, and I turned and ran as hard as I could, and as straight on the path the ball was hit on. I took one look back to assure I was running on the same path as the ball and to time where I figured I needed to be. I heard the ball sizzling as it went over my head, Never looking. Never slowing down a bit, I thrusted my glove in the air at what I judged to be the right time. I never felt the ball hit in my glove. In fact, I continued to run until I realized that the ball never got past me. It was safely in my glove for the third out. After that play I could often hear the opponents (often it was Bill) say, don’t hit the ball to Ingerson. He catches everything out there. That’s a pretty good feeling to hear that. And it makes the memory more than just a single moment in a way. Bill was killed in his early twenties. He got a nice-paying job as an electric lineman. He touched a 20,000 volt line one day and died instantly. We were on and off friends, sometimes enemies and even co-workers for a while. He lived life full out and took it full on. To here him as one that was cheering for me when playing with me and against me when playing against carried so much more sincerity than to here them from someone who was fully vested as a friend. So there. You made me pick one. I think you can tell it was and remains a moment that was about more than baseball. That was just some hi school guys playing a game, but 50 years later, it’s still way more than a catch. There was a lot of life tied in with it, and that is more of what makes it such a special moment. It ties my favorite sport in with life, and memorializes my opponent at the same time. I have a similar moment with golf, but not right now... Okay, Inger, time for you to relate the golf moment with us. We’ve waited for 21 months. Where’s the popcorn emoji? Oh well, another cup of tea. Since I only made one eagle, and that on a 100 yard wedge shot that went on in the fly for a 3 on a par 5, you’d think that might be it. It’s pretty high up there. I think I’d go with with a little par 3. This was a little stinker that was a downhill hole that would move around from 130 yards back to 185 on any given day. The golf course was called Pilgrims Oak. The eighth hole played about 40 yards downhill, also nicely fronted by a creek. I chose an eight iron that day at 165 yards with a slight breeze in my face. I hit the ball sweetly and it landed on the green just short of pin high, but slowly skittered onto the back fringe and nestled up against the edge of the grass at the back of the green. When we went down to look at our shots, that grass was right at the point that it was due for mowing. I was wearing my Greg Norman straw hat that day and I almost seemed like he channeled me. I could see him chipping in with his three wood off that collar of rough. When I pulled the three wood out I saw the other three guys look at each other like they had never seen anyone do that before, except maybe a pro on TV. I took about four practice swings, then addressed the ball. The chip was about 12 feet, running downhill just a bit, and taking a hard turn to the left. The stroke came off perfectly, the ball sliding a few inches before it started to roll. My golfing partner Charlie reacted right away to the line it was on, and so did I. The speed was also just right as the ball took that little left turn I saw Charlie start to walk the shot out almost like he himself had hit it. Then he thrusted his fist in the air and hollered out as it went in. Even the two opponents did the same, the shot having been so good and perhaps unexpected due to the use of a three wood. Just four people on a wooded golf hole, but somehow it was almost like having a gallery excited to watch. There were still three balls to be played, but at that moment, the home was already won. Charlie* had been a golfer for over thirty years at that point. He told me he never saw any shot around the greens come off cleaner, nor the golfer look more confident and like he knew what he was doing. The other guys were asking me about the club selection and commenting about my imagination. It was indeed like I was in a zone and destined to score that little birdie that day… * I had hired Charlie to run one of my loading docks about three years earlier. At the time, I had just started playing golf. As a veteran golfer he would become my best mentor. He passed away about 12 or 13 years ago. He was baffled that I had immediately come up with a perfect ball mark. Three dots over four dots for Gehrig and Ruth. I found him on the dock one day with five golf balls and he was drawing smiley faces, asterisks, triangles. He said my ball mark made him realize that in thirty years, he had never settled on a mark. ••• •••• |
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Post by rizzuto on Dec 16, 2021 13:26:27 GMT -5
Okay, Inger, time for you to relate the golf moment with us. We’ve waited for 21 months. Where’s the popcorn emoji? Oh well, another cup of tea. Since I only made one eagle, and that on a 100 yard wedge shot that went on in the fly for a 3 on a par 5, you’d think that might be it. It’s pretty high up there. I think I’d go with with a little par 3. This was a little stinker that was a downhill hole that would move around from 130 yards back to 185 on any given day. The golf course was called Pilgrims Oak. The eighth hole played about 40 yards downhill, also nicely fronted by a creek. I chose an eight iron that day at 165 yards with a slight breeze in my face. I hit the ball sweetly and it landed on the green just short of pin high, but slowly skittered onto the back fringe and nestled up against the edge of the grass at the back of the green. When we went down to look at our shots, that grass was right at the point that it was due for mowing. I was wearing my Greg Norman straw hat that day and I almost seemed like he channeled me. I could see him chipping in with his three wood off that collar of rough. When I pulled the three wood out I saw the other three guys look at each other like they had never seen anyone do that before, except maybe a pro on TV. I took about four practice swings, then addressed the ball. The chip was about 12 feet, running downhill just a bit, and taking a hard turn to the left. The stroke came off perfectly, the ball sliding a few inches before it started to roll. My golfing partner Charlie reacted right away to the line it was on, and so did I. The speed was also just right as the ball took that little left turn I saw Charlie start to walk the shot out almost like he himself had hit it. Then he thrusted his fist in the air and hollered out as it went in. Even the two opponents did the same, the shot having been so good and perhaps unexpected due to the use of a three wood. Just four people on a wooded golf hole, but somehow it was almost like having a gallery excited to watch. There were still three balls to be played, but at that moment, the home was already won. Charlie* had been a golfer for over thirty years at that point. He told me he never saw any shot around the greens come off cleaner, nor the golfer look more confident and like he knew what he was doing. The other guys were asking me about the club selection and commenting about my imagination. It was indeed like I was in a zone and destined to score that little birdie that day… * I had hired Charlie to run one of my loading docks about three years earlier. At the time, I had just started playing golf. As a veteran golfer he would become my best mentor. He passed away about 12 or 13 years ago. He was baffled that I had immediately come up with a perfect ball mark. Three dots over four dots for Gehrig and Ruth. I found him on the dock one day with five golf balls and he was drawing smiley faces, asterisks, triangles. He said my ball mark made him realize that in thirty years, he had never settled on a mark. ••• ••••  I never could settle on a ball mark either, so most of the time it went unmarked. Every now and then, the three-wood is perfect around the greens. I don’t think I’ve ever chipped in with one, though. |
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Post by inger on Dec 16, 2021 14:26:09 GMT -5
Since I only made one eagle, and that on a 100 yard wedge shot that went on in the fly for a 3 on a par 5, you’d think that might be it. It’s pretty high up there. I think I’d go with with a little par 3. This was a little stinker that was a downhill hole that would move around from 130 yards back to 185 on any given day. The golf course was called Pilgrims Oak. The eighth hole played about 40 yards downhill, also nicely fronted by a creek. I chose an eight iron that day at 165 yards with a slight breeze in my face. I hit the ball sweetly and it landed on the green just short of pin high, but slowly skittered onto the back fringe and nestled up against the edge of the grass at the back of the green. When we went down to look at our shots, that grass was right at the point that it was due for mowing. I was wearing my Greg Norman straw hat that day and I almost seemed like he channeled me. I could see him chipping in with his three wood off that collar of rough. When I pulled the three wood out I saw the other three guys look at each other like they had never seen anyone do that before, except maybe a pro on TV. I took about four practice swings, then addressed the ball. The chip was about 12 feet, running downhill just a bit, and taking a hard turn to the left. The stroke came off perfectly, the ball sliding a few inches before it started to roll. My golfing partner Charlie reacted right away to the line it was on, and so did I. The speed was also just right as the ball took that little left turn I saw Charlie start to walk the shot out almost like he himself had hit it. Then he thrusted his fist in the air and hollered out as it went in. Even the two opponents did the same, the shot having been so good and perhaps unexpected due to the use of a three wood. Just four people on a wooded golf hole, but somehow it was almost like having a gallery excited to watch. There were still three balls to be played, but at that moment, the home was already won. Charlie* had been a golfer for over thirty years at that point. He told me he never saw any shot around the greens come off cleaner, nor the golfer look more confident and like he knew what he was doing. The other guys were asking me about the club selection and commenting about my imagination. It was indeed like I was in a zone and destined to score that little birdie that day… * I had hired Charlie to run one of my loading docks about three years earlier. At the time, I had just started playing golf. As a veteran golfer he would become my best mentor. He passed away about 12 or 13 years ago. He was baffled that I had immediately come up with a perfect ball mark. Three dots over four dots for Gehrig and Ruth. I found him on the dock one day with five golf balls and he was drawing smiley faces, asterisks, triangles. He said my ball mark made him realize that in thirty years, he had never settled on a mark. ••• •••• I never could settle on a ball mark either, so most of the time it went unmarked. Every now and then, the three-wood is perfect around the greens. I don’t think I’ve ever chipped in with one, though. I started out with that foursome when I was a 39-year old 36 handicapper rookie. By that time I had dropped to a 13 and was beating one two guys every time we played. Having come from 36, I was probably actually playing like a 9 or 10 at the point. Regular low nineties and occasional mid to low 80’s. I think that was why even the losing side was pretty tickled to see the shot. I could have chosen from some 350-360 yard drivers that I caught on the screws, a 140 yard “chip in” for a birdie. Some near miracle out of the trees. It’s odd how we choose a little chip in to remember… |
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Post by inger on Dec 16, 2021 14:31:38 GMT -5
Since I only made one eagle, and that on a 100 yard wedge shot that went on in the fly for a 3 on a par 5, you’d think that might be it. It’s pretty high up there. I think I’d go with with a little par 3. This was a little stinker that was a downhill hole that would move around from 130 yards back to 185 on any given day. The golf course was called Pilgrims Oak. The eighth hole played about 40 yards downhill, also nicely fronted by a creek. I chose an eight iron that day at 165 yards with a slight breeze in my face. I hit the ball sweetly and it landed on the green just short of pin high, but slowly skittered onto the back fringe and nestled up against the edge of the grass at the back of the green. When we went down to look at our shots, that grass was right at the point that it was due for mowing. I was wearing my Greg Norman straw hat that day and I almost seemed like he channeled me. I could see him chipping in with his three wood off that collar of rough. When I pulled the three wood out I saw the other three guys look at each other like they had never seen anyone do that before, except maybe a pro on TV. I took about four practice swings, then addressed the ball. The chip was about 12 feet, running downhill just a bit, and taking a hard turn to the left. The stroke came off perfectly, the ball sliding a few inches before it started to roll. My golfing partner Charlie reacted right away to the line it was on, and so did I. The speed was also just right as the ball took that little left turn I saw Charlie start to walk the shot out almost like he himself had hit it. Then he thrusted his fist in the air and hollered out as it went in. Even the two opponents did the same, the shot having been so good and perhaps unexpected due to the use of a three wood. Just four people on a wooded golf hole, but somehow it was almost like having a gallery excited to watch. There were still three balls to be played, but at that moment, the home was already won. Charlie* had been a golfer for over thirty years at that point. He told me he never saw any shot around the greens come off cleaner, nor the golfer look more confident and like he knew what he was doing. The other guys were asking me about the club selection and commenting about my imagination. It was indeed like I was in a zone and destined to score that little birdie that day… * I had hired Charlie to run one of my loading docks about three years earlier. At the time, I had just started playing golf. As a veteran golfer he would become my best mentor. He passed away about 12 or 13 years ago. He was baffled that I had immediately come up with a perfect ball mark. Three dots over four dots for Gehrig and Ruth. I found him on the dock one day with five golf balls and he was drawing smiley faces, asterisks, triangles. He said my ball mark made him realize that in thirty years, he had never settled on a mark. ••• •••• I never could settle on a ball mark either, so most of the time it went unmarked. Every now and then, the three-wood is perfect around the greens. I don’t think I’ve ever chipped in with one, though. I had a few guys ask me why I didn’t just color the whole damned ball… |
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I never could settle on a ball mark either, so most of the time it went unmarked. Every now and then, the three-wood is perfect around the greens. I don’t think I’ve ever chipped in with one, though.