“Mom, I’m going outside,” shouting upstairs as I put on my white sailor cap.  At least it used to be white.

“Where?”

“Up to the church lot to play stickball.”

“Okay, be careful, watch for cars, don’t run in the road.”

Whatever.

I grab my bat, a broomstick from the hardware store.  And two tennis balls, worn from too many games between my parents.  They don’t keep score, or so they say.

I have a quarter for candy and a pack of baseball cards from the corner store.  All set.

It’s late morning, the sun already high enough to send shimmers across the blacktop.  The church lot is our sanctuary, cars sometimes parked off to the side, leaving the stickball field open for use.  The strike zone is drawn with either white or yellow chalk, using whatever’s available.  The size mostly too big, allowing for the limited pitching ability of our group.  The reverend who lives next door grumbles at times, but generally lets us alone.

Trees serve as foul poles.  Left field less spacious than right, enough to make me a switch hitter.  Singles bouncing in the lot, doubles in the street, triples across the street and homers as far as the houses.  Grounders caught in the lot are outs.

I wait for others to arrive, most from our block, some from other streets.  Knock on some doors, “Can Russell play?”  Andy shows up, we get Bruce and now we have a foursome, enough for a game.  Each team with a pitcher and fielder.  Others who show up wait their turn.

Since it’s just the four of us, we agree to play nine innings, three outs per team.  Russell and I usually pitch, the fielder playing in the street, yelling “Car,” to stop the play.  If we can’t agree on balls and strikes, it’s a do over.  These are discouraged, especially since we have chalk marks.

Play ball!