That Imperfect Season

      I recently came across an old memory, one of those things that are seemingly long forgotten but in spite of everything they retain a foothold on your soul, waiting for you to put down the burdens of the present to once again look, savor, and remember.

     It is worn and yellowed now, and perhaps angry for being so ingloriously stuffed away in a box under the stairway for forty years or so next to old Life magazines and dog-eared Sears and Roebuck catalogs.  Such is the fate and paradox of old memories:  They gather their strength and power through the lowly dust that collects upon them like a musty badge of honor.
     The kids in my neighborhood all had a dream of one day playing Major League Baseball and to that end our summer days were filled with seemingly countless pick up games over at the old schoolyard.  They consisted of maybe four - or at most, five - players per side, with the person at bat doubling as the catcher, meaning: if they missed the pitch, they'd take three steps back to the backstop to get the ball and throw it back to their opponent.  Baseball is the only sport in which the offense never touches the ball, but the "rule makers" never played true schoolyard ball, Lincoln, Nebraska style.
     As part of the stepping stone to the "Bigs" we all played little league baseball in the summer, the Lincoln version of it being called the "Little Chiefs."  It was called this in tribute to the old Lincoln Chiefs, a minor league affiliate of the Pirates who played their home games at venerable Sherman Field in the late '50's and early '60's.  Our summers revolved around this activity, and it is still one of the great times of my life.

     One year, we had a really great team.  I mean, really great.  Our best player was Steve Damkroger, the last in the line of a fine athletic family; he went on to be an all Big 8 linebacker at the University of Nebraska, following his brother, Maury - one of my childhood idols - who also played at the "U" as a fullback and had a brief cup of coffee with the NFL's New England Patriots after using up his eligibility.  Steve was a stud.  He pitched and no one could hit him; fortunately, he was on our team.  As a group, we were basically unbeatable.  
     Almost.

     I recently came across a booklet documenting our season that consisted of number-crunched statistics from the score book, various memories from Coach McCormick, and, oddly enough, a meticulous final page showing a to-the-penny bookkeeping statement of the after game treat fund which was used to pay for trips to the local A&W.  We only went if we won, and that summer we consumed a lot of A&W.  Except one time.
     In our fourth game, one of the players who was not normally a pitcher wanted a chance to take the hill and he was given that opportunity.  I remember playing shortstop during that game and seeing it not go well for us.  Looking back at the stat sheet, I see that there was one hit and three walks recorded early on, and peeking at the coach's memories part of the booklet, I saw that there was also a home run involved.  We gave up five runs in that inning and never recovered.  Later on in the year we got our revenge for that loss by defeating that team 22-1.  But the damage was done.  

     It's funny how sometimes I still think of that game and that imperfect season.  I can drive by that field and picture ourselves out there, gangly youth still full of innocence and chasing wisps of dreams in the early evening sun, caring only for the next batter, the next inning, the next hour, the next day, the next game.  Our adult lives were still out there somewhere, waiting and silently plotting to impose on us another, more harsh, imperfect season in the form of divorce, heartbreak, financial trouble, and all that being an adult would imply.  We eventually went our separate ways after school and a couple more seasons, but to this day the bond of that time and that one loss remains among us.