My cousin Pooch is 83 now and one of the last ties to my dad and uncles on the Hall side of the family. I was thinking about him as baseball season approaches.

A few months back, Pooch was telling us about growing up during the depression and WWII, and playing baseball as a young boy in southern Illinois. Well, actually, he was telling us about playing stickball. At the time, no one could afford a bat or real ball. They used a broomstick for a bat. And for the ball? They would stuff a sock with old rags and then tape the “ball” tightly with tape his dad brought home from the local coal mine. The tape was similar to duct tape, but sticky on both sides. After taping the “ball” as tightly as he could, he would roll it in dirt to get rid of the stickiness of the outside layer.

There were eight or ten young kids living on his street, counting both boys and girls. They would divide into teams and girls and boys both played. Pooch was the oldest on the block, so he was typically captain of one of the teams. He had a girlfriend at the time and being a smart guy, he usually chose her first for his team. He says it didn’t really matter how they chose the players as no team ever won all of the games.

They played in the street with rocks or pieces of wood for the bases. Occasionally a car came by, but not very often. The ball was so soft, it wouldn’t break any nearby windows and no one needed a glove to catch it. No one could afford a glove in any case. The ball would eventually break after being hit a few times. They would retape the sock and continue. The game would go on all afternoon until they finally got bored, or ran out of tape.

He told me other stories of playing real baseball in hand-me-down uniforms from the local coal-mine team, and then attending games at the local Class D minor league affiliate – the West Frankfort Cardinals. In high school, he made money selling sodas for ten cents a piece at those games, and later working as a ball chaser. He was paid $1.50 per game to retrieve foul balls. He said it was much better than lugging around a case of soda.

The home opener is a week away here in DC. I can’t wait to see the Nats and whether they will make another run to the playoffs this year. Before the game, I’ll be thinking about Pooch and those hot, dusty summers in Southern Illinois, playing stickball, and picking his girlfriend first.

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This blog was based on conversations with Pooch in September of ’17, and also recollections that Pooch had previously written in a family autobiography of his youth in Southern Illinois.

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