Beyond the Byline: Take me out to the ballgame — anytime

WILKES-BARRE — As the NFL season begins this week, my thoughts are with baseball.

The National Pastime — 90 feet between the bases. Fastballs, curveballs, home runs, line drives, spectacular catches, stolen bases, double plays, sacrifice bunts and flies, hot dogs, apple pie and standing ovations.

Take me out to the ballgame — anytime.

When will somebody invent a real Way Back Machine so we can go back to those days before cell phones and video games. When kids played outside all day into the evening, stopping only for lunch, or a Yoo Hoo and a Tastykake at Jack’s Market on Second Street.

Back in the day, we had some hotly contested Wiffle Ball games in my backyard on Reynolds Street. We took this very seriously.

We would assume the batting order of our favorite team and play nine-inning games against each other. It was one-on-one, but you could feel the drama building like it was the seventh game of the World Series.

I was usually the Yankees. Walter Roman was usually the Phillies or the Giants. George Miklosi was the Braves or any other team with a lot of lefthanded batters. My lineup featured Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, Bill “Moose” Skowron and Clete Boyer.

And I would always get Johnny Blanchard in the game. Johnny served in the U.S. Army with my dad’s friend, Bobby Novak. When Johnny came to Plymouth, Bobby would call my dad and tell him to “bring the kid down, Johnny’s here.”

To be authentic, we had to bat from the same side as the player in the lineup — right-handed and left-handed — and depending on who was pitching, Mantle, a switch-hitter, would hit from the appropriate side of the plate. It was a rule. But we didn’t make the pitcher throw lefty if he was a righty and vice versa.

We even offered play-by-play and color commentary. Walter would usually pitch a righty against me every time to keep Mantle in the lefty box.

The “stadium” was my backyard. A single was anything past the pitcher. A double was on the roof of our back porch. A triple was on the main roof of the house. And a home run was over the roof, often landing out on Reynolds Street.

These games were very competitive — we played to win. And with a Wiffle Ball, pitches would break every which way.

And all the while we played these games, we dreamed. We dreamed of one day being a Little League All-Star. And then a high school standout, and from there — the big leagues. Yes, we were all going to play centerfield for the Yankees, or catch for the Phillies or pitch for the Dodgers.

Like I said, we had dreams.

As with most dreams, there comes a point when you wake up and you realize it was just that — a dream. And you return to your normal life of driving a truck, or teaching or writing for a local newspaper.

But those dreams never really die.

Our childhoods are filled with so many memories of baseball, but I can’t relate them all. We grew up when Major League Baseball was at its very best. There were Hall of Famers on every team.

If you visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., you will see them all — their plaques are in the gallery at the Hall of Fame — Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente, Ted Williams, Sandy Koufax, Jackie Robinson, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Juan Marichal, Nolan Ryan, Rod Carew, Harmon Killebrew, Brooks Robinson, Al Kaline, Bob Gibson, Stan Musial, Willie McCovey, Don Drysdale, Frank Robinson, Ernie Banks, Robin Roberts, Duke Snider, Billy Williams, Orlando Cepeda, Tony Oliva, Eddie Matthews, Ferguson Jenkins and many more.

When I walk through every level of the Hall of Fame and stop to marvel at many of the displays, the memories of the 1960s come rushing back. And every time I go there, I learn something new and I stand in wonderment of the accomplishments of these great players.

I walk the Main Street. I stop at Doubleday Field. I buy a souvenir or two.

But most importantly, I go back to those backyard Wiffle Ball games and I’m a kid again. Seeing the names and reading about these Hall of Famers takes me back to those days and it’s all good.

Back to those days when I was Mickey and Walter Roman was Willie and George Mikloski was Hank and we all smashed those tape-measure homers over the roof of my Reynolds Street house — all the way to Cooperstown and the Hall of Fame.

In our dreams.

Reach Bill O’Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle.