Tossing around memories

By Ron Kantowski (contact)

Tuesday, Oct. 7, 2008 | 2 a.m.

Baseball is rarely played on crisp October afternoons anymore because the networks won’t hear of it.

Most of the ballparks have been outfitted with roofs. One even has a bunch of catwalks that can turn long home runs into ground-rule singles. Sheesh! Bring back the Polo Grounds.

But when it comes to rekindling memories of Fall Classics past, hot dog wrappers blowing around in Shea Stadium and Tommie Agee running into the wall to rob another Baltimore Oriole of another extra-base hit, there’s nothing like throwing the baseball around with an old friend.

(If you’re perplexed by the Mets’ World Series references, it’s because I’ve been a Cubs’ fan since birth, and we don’t have any.)

So when I got Big Daddy’s e-mail, saying that because I was on vacation and the Cubs were playing night games I had absolutely no excuse not to join him for a catch, I foolishly agreed.

Now when it comes to playing catch, I’m one of those romantic Ray Kinsella types who believe that ideally, it should be with the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson or one’s old man on Opening Day — or, for that matter, any day your old man feels up to it. But playing catch with our fathers is no longer an option for Big Daddy and me, not that any of that figured into his invitation, because Big Daddy is not one to share feelings that are warm and soft and fuzzy. As ol’ Casey Stengel used to say, you could look it up.

In case you are wondering, we started calling Big Daddy that about 20 years ago because he is built like Rick Reuschel, the former Cubs (and Giants) pitcher, who also was called Big Daddy and grew a beard for some reason.

But he was right. Other than the next day’s sore arm, there really was no excuse.

Two years ago, when Big Daddy bought a new first baseman’s mitt, I bought a new glove, too, which shows you how long I had been putting off the idea of actually using it. I finally discovered my glove, an infielder’s model with stubby fingers, in a dark corner of the closet in the spare bedroom, with a way-too-white “Official League” baseball tucked in the pocket.

Though I was reluctant to bring such a bogus ball to such a milestone occasion, the only other baseball in the house was the one Duane Ward, the former Blue Jays relief ace I had covered in high school, signed for me after his first major league game in 1986. One of these days, I plan to give it back to him. Besides, it didn’t seem right that a guy who saved a league-leading 45 games in 1993 should have his autograph obliterated by the errant tosses of a couple of 50-year-old men who couldn’t hit a Wiffle ball changeup.

Thankfully, Big Daddy saved the day by showing up with a yellow-white official American League baseball signed by Bobby Brown, who hasn’t been the American League president since 1994. I guess it had been awhile since Big Daddy had a catch, too.

Though it would have been cool to come strolling out of a cornfield, corn doesn’t grow very well at O’Callaghan Park. So we settled on a wide swatch of grass that was far away from the moms who were talking to one another while their kids skinned knees on playground equipment. This is always a good idea. Nothing puts a damper on playing catch like knocking a little one off the monkey bars with a wild pitch.

The only living object within 100 yards was a tall cottonwood tree, which Big Daddy kept working his way toward until he was standing in the cool shade its branches provided.

It was about this time that I noticed my Iola Gasbags (Missouri Valley League, 1902) T-shirt had soaked through. We had been playing catch for no more than 15 minutes and I felt like CC Sabathia working on three days’ rest.

After I found the sweet spot in my field of vision — this was the first time I had played ball since wearing glasses — playing catch was a blast of Manny Ramirez proportions. We tossed the ball around for nearly an hour, and the only injuries were Big Daddy’s bruised palm — much to my surprise, I made that first baseman’s mitt pop with a couple of high, hard tosses — and my bleeding knuckles.

It’s probably not a good idea to pound your fist in your glove when you haven’t played catch in 25 years.

Although it was only 11 a.m., we decided to call it a day when a couple of kids showed up with their gloves. They also had a bat. That just didn’t seem like a good idea.

What sounded like a good idea was a cold beer — even at 11 a.m. So we went down to the local Buffalo Wild Wings and asked the bartender whether it was too early for a couple of old ballplayers — not “old” as in former but “old” as in old — to get a cold one.

She said we had come to the right place. Then she turned every TV in the bar to the White Sox-Rays game.

We were the only ones there.

The afternoon was sultry, not crisp. Tommie Agee had been dead for seven years and they were showing those awful catwalks at Tropicana Field.

But it was sort of like baseball the way we remembered it.

Except that our arms were killing us.

Read Ron Kantowski’s blog “Now and Then.”