Over-the-Hill League : There Goes the Old Ball Game

Bottom of the third, bases jammed, two outs, and the guy with the artificial hip was up.

The pitcher told the left fielder to move in. Mind your own damn business, the outfielder replied.

So the pitcher felt a bit spiteful. “Go ahead and drop it in front of him,” he told the batter, and then he lobbed the next pitch slow and without spin, about waist high, fat as a pumpkin.

Al Freyberger hit it square. The ball arced toward the sun, lolled high among the sea gulls, then came down where no glove could reach it. It skipped along the bumpy grass toward the fence, and three runs scored.

Chugging Into Second

Gosh, he walloped it. Old Al’s face lit up as he chugged into second. He stomped some dust out of the base while he caught his wind. It would have been a home run sure thing, back when Al still had good wheels, before the hip implant, before he turned 83.

But there’s no point in regrets, not when the air is this warm and the grass smells green and the ball makes that wonderful pop against leather. In this slow-pitch softball league--the Kids and Kubs of St. Petersburg--there is joy in simply scurrying above the turf instead of being planted beneath it.

To play on one of the two teams, a man must be 74 years old, though not all here are that young. Nineteen of the 34 players are past 80, three of them over 90.

Freddie Broadwell--these days just skin, bones and chewing tobacco--is 101. “I don’t run quite like I used to,” he admitted.

But most others can still dash up the line. They take a level slice at the ball, and the outfield stays respectful. If a few of the guys hit only woozy grounders, it evens out. A few of the guys don’t bend so good.

‘The Flesh Is Weak’

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” said Bill Walsh, who is 83. “At my age, you have the confidence but not the execution.”

Harry Tarlaian is 78, with good speed and a bad heart. “I could sit around and play checkers, but that stuff don’t go with me,” said Harry, a retired machinist instructor known for his pluck.

In 1981, he had the double-bypass surgery. Then three years later he got the pacemaker. Then he led the league in home runs, with 16 over the 60-game haul, October to March.

“If I drop dead on the ball field, just dig the hole right there,” Harry suggested.

Which is not meant to be funny. Back in ‘69, Lee Morrison, who was 81 and playing first base, went up for a high throw like a gazelle and came down dead like a clay pigeon. An ambulance took him away. The game went on.

“And don’t forget Burnie, what’s his name, Cecil Burnie,” reminded George Bakewell, 93, something of the league historian. “Of course, he didn’t die on the field.”

“No, he died in the car right after the game,” said Sam Hott, 81, his voice lowering to a whisper. “His wife told him not to play.”

Deep down, every ballplayer knows it will come to this, a few final at-bats on the off-ramp of retirement. That makes these last raps precious as air. And it’s proper to take them on a trim field with a smooth dirt infield and an announcer reciting the lineups to people in the stands.

Baseball, of course, is not always bliss. It can be bad as war. Ground balls come at a player like bouncing torpedoes and pop-ups like unguided missiles. Almost every boy has suffered the razz and the jeer and has known too well the saddest news in all of sports: Stee-rike three, you’re out!

But most of the Kids and Kubs have had a better go of it. They’ve played high school ball and legion ball and church ball--mastered the basics and gone on to the fine points. A few have even played pro down in the bush leagues.

Mitts in the Attic

The way things go, most of their playing days came when they were teens and in their twenties and thirties. Then they gave it up. They put their mitts in the attic and their daydreams in their children.

So, to a retiree to St. Petersburg, it comes as a neat surprise to hear about this league for the oldest of the old. The Kids and Kubs have been around since 1931, the brainstorm of a lady from the chamber of commerce.

The first thing a newcomer notices is that these guys dress funny. By tradition, they wear black bow ties, white shirts and white trousers. The look is more ice cream man than ballplayer.

But the next thing is that they talk it up, hit the cutoff man, advance the runner. This is spirited softball, despite the bifocals and the hearing aids and the wrinkled cheeks.

“Sometimes, we play some pretty good ball, and sometimes, well, we start throwing it around a little,” said Pat Rylee, who is 74 and this season’s rookie phenom.

.835 Slugger

The talk is that Rylee could be as good as Ed Stauffer, who played in the bigs for the Chicago Cubs and the St. Louis Browns back in the ‘20s. An older, gray-topped Stauffer hit .835 for the Kids and Kubs in 1973. Then he died of cancer.

“They say Stauffer was something, but that Rylee fields shortstop just like a professional, doesn’t he?” said Bill Walsh, no use hiding the envy. “Of course, he’s just a youngster.”

Rylee, who used to work in the silk mills of Pennsylvania, has a lean body born to baseball. Three quarters of a century hasn’t changed that. His arms and legs still do just what they’re told. His glove is where line drives go to die.

Fifteen different guys are fond of saying: Pat reminds me of me when I was still me.

“When I first come up, I used to move like that,” said Harry Tarlaian. “They said, what an arm you got. But there’s a big difference between 75 and 80, don’t let anybody kid you. You slow down a little every year, not to mention if you get cataracts or gall bladder or something.”

Wisdom No Help at Third

“I got this hat that says: I’m not getting older, I’m getting better. I like the hat, but it’s a lie. There’s no beating youth. You may get wiser, but wisdom doesn’t help you make the crackerjack play behind the bag at third.”

At the season’s start, the two captains divvy up the players, and the guys under 80 are dispensed like gems: one for me, one for you.

Even then, the teams can become a little lopsided. The rules state that, if one side gets a four-game edge, the worse off can steal a player from the other. Predictably, Pat Rylee began the season as a Kub and has now become a Kid.

On a recent sun-blessed Saturday, the young shortstop was among the first to arrive. He helps set up the public address system before the games. A green tank of oxygen is placed in the visitors’ dugout.

Others have their own rituals. Jack Gladney, 87, put his dentures in a plastic box and locked it up in his Pinto station wagon. Whitfield Case, 78, practiced some swings lefty. He hopes to become a switch hitter.

When the lineups were posted, there was the inevitable grousing among the Kubs, who have been on the downs since Rylee went over to other side.

‘I’m Going Home’

“Smitty comes to me and says, ‘I want to play the first half,’ ” reported John Borgeson, 80, the Kubs’ captain. “I said, ‘No, I’m playing Van Dyke first half.’ So he said, ‘Well, I’m going home.’ So I said, ‘Well, goodby.’ ”

In the top of the first, the Kubs put two across, but then the Kids matched it in the second.

Two were on when Al Freyberger singled between short and third. Then the left fielder kicked it like a soccer ball while trying to bend down.

The Kids would have scored more, but with two outs the rally was left to Hugo Unger, and Hugo is 92. So the saying goes, he runs too long in one spot.

“Looks like he’s dragging a piano,” one of the Kubs’ smart alecks remarked after Hugo grounded to the pitcher.

In the third, the Kubs pulled ahead again. This is how: Man on first, two outs, and Al Christopher, 75, dribbled a slow one back to the mound.

Bad Throw to First

It should have been easy for pitcher Ted Asher, 76, except a lot of Ted’s bulk has relocated south. He split his pants making the pickup. Then his throw bounced down the right field line.

Before the ball was salvaged, Christopher, who’s young and spry, had rounded third. A bit too far, in fact. He was caught in a rundown, and it seemed he’d be dead as a log.

But then third baseman Bill Butler got nervous. Bill is 81 and his face pinched up with pressure and his eyes darted to too many places. A soft throw socked him in the right cheek. He collapsed like a souffle.

“Oh, boy,” he moaned, flat on his rear.

So the Kids were down 4-2. They would have to rally again.

Harry at the Plate

Harry Tarlaian grabbed a bat. He pushed his bifocals up his nose. He knocked the dirt from his cleats. He practiced his swing against the air, then he squinted at the pitcher.

The second pitch was the one Harry picked out, a bit low and outside. He sent it skidding into center field. Two men had a chance at it, but each came up cursing the pocket of his glove. Harry tagged all four.

“Nah, nah,” he said, refusing handshakes back in the dugout. “Shouldn’t have been a homer.”

Two outs later, score 4-3, Pat Rylee stepped confidently toward the plate. The outfielders shouted the usual warning: Rylee, Rylee. A few spat into their mitts and rubbed the wetness. Then they backed up.

Pat hit it hard as usual, though not so far. The line drive lost steam a few feet in front of the left fielder. The phenom scooted to second, and the fielders were pleased he didn’t try for more.

Two More Singles

The next batter drove him in: tie score. Then came two more singles. The bases were loaded for Al Freyberger, the former master plumber in the Empire State Building. A big hit would bust the game open.

Old Al, a short man with an ample belly, walked slowly to the plate. His right leg is the one with the metal hip.

“I hate to think of the day when I’ll have to give the game up,” he had been saying just the other day.

No doubt, he’s not the player he was. This isn’t like ‘81-’82, when he hit .526. Those stats are kept under glass in a frame, hung in the living room of his condominium.

“Let’s go Al, baby!” a teammate shouted between a bullhorn of hands.

Belt-High Pitch

He rested the bat on his shoulder. He watched the pitcher fidget.

Then the windup, then the pitch. He studied the slow arc of the ball. It glided near him belt high, just right.

The bat jumped off his shoulder. His arms pulled it around. There was a solid smack. The ball soared.

Then everything was motion. And a soothing breeze blew back and forth through time.