She shed sandals to teach boys a baseball lesson

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and it was a mild summer morning in late June in the late 1950s. It was a day tailormade for baseball.

I was one of three boys trying to organize a morning practice session in Larimer, but we had more dilemmas than baseballs. We needed more guys.

We tried practically every neighborhood punk, good boy, would-be priest and old man who ever stepped into a batter’s box or put on a glove — all to no avail. We still needed one more player.

It was taken for granted that the three of us were among the best ballplayers in the neighborhood, chosen first for pickup games unless we were already the captains doing the choosing. After all, Nicky and Anthony were going to be the next Maz and Groat — everybody knew that except the Pirates.

In just a few moments our predicament would change, and so would we, from an unexpected arrival.

She was a tall, sandaled black girl, not much older than we were, in her 20s compared with our late teens. She had a really pretty face on a slender frame. Clearly a stranger to the neighborhood, she came out of the apartment next to the practice field we called the “Club Yard” (officially Larimer Field to Pittsburgh’s Parks and Recreation Department).

Her manicured fingers curled into the cyclone fence as she shouted, “Hey, boy, can I play?”

I was blind for a moment and speechless, too. No girl — I mean, woman — had ever asked us to play baseball. By the tone of her voice, she was serious about playing. Never waiting for a response, she entered through the gate, grabbed my glove and yelled at Anthony, “Hey, Fabian, take short!”

Nicky knew to take second, while she played first base. I was still in stunned silence, so she shouted, “Hit the ball!” She kicked off her sandals and rocked back and forth on her bare feet with the motion of a pro.

I can’t describe her voice or really see her face with the passage of time, but I recall that she was both pretty and commanding. Her abilities were peerless. In less than an hour she took every pop from Anthony’s or Nicky’s throws. They had arms, and so did she.

She tossed the ball back to me at the plate with as much skill and technique as any man did. I was accustomed to catching such throws barehanded, and she gave my hand a workout. I hit groundballs over and over again to Anthony, Nicky and her. She fielded flawlessly, never missing a grounder or dropping a throw.

It was something eyeopening for us to see, an exhilarating instant in a boring life. And an instant is all it was, or so it now seems. She looked past the fence at another young woman, clearly a friend, and said, “That’s it, boys, I gotta go!”

She put down my glove, leaned her back against the fence and dusted off her bare feet. As she put on her sandals, her smile told how much fun it was to play with the boys. She flopped into the passenger seat of a waiting red LeSabre convertible, joining her friend and two local guys we recognized but couldn’t name. Their laughter rippled through the summer air as the car smoothly accelerated into traffic. We never saw her again.

Baseball meant so much to us then. Our lives and recreation were little different from those of our fathers — the same schoolyards, ball fields and dark alleys. Our background music was the din of spousal fights, crapshoot arguments and parents calling their children home for dinner.

I wonder what became of that young woman, or who she really was. How did she learn to play so well? Did her brother teach her the way mine taught me, or did she insinuate herself as a child into the games of boys until her skills were just as good? At night, if she’s still alive, does she think of that day, remember us and play the moment over again in her mind?

I still do. It is a little wisp of time that lingers still.

The PG Portfolio welcomes “Baseball Lore” submissions, along with other reader essays. Send your writing to page2@post-gazette.com; or by mail to Portfolio, Post-Gazette, 34 Blvd. of the Allies, Pittsburgh PA 15222. Portfolio editor Gary Rotstein may be reached at 412-263-1255.