Strathroy

By David Emery Popular memory has been unkind to William Howard Taft, 27th President of the United States, who surely would have wished to be remembered for something nobler than his weight. At 300 pounds, he is the heaviest chief executive on record. It's the rare biographical sketch that doesn't mention the giant bathtub – large enough to hold four average-sized men – specially built for him in the White House. Baseball history has accorded him somewhat more dignity, for it was Taft who launched the tradition of the presidential first pitch on the opening day of the season. The occasion was a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics on April 14, 1910 at Griffith Stadium. Umpire Billy Evans handed Taft the ball after the introduction of the rival managers and asked him to throw it over home plate. He graciously assented. Nearly every U.S. president since Taft (the sole exception being Jimmy Carter) has opened at least one season by tossing out the first ball. Legend has it Taft inspired another baseball tradition that same day, quite by accident. As the game wore on, the rotund, six-foot-two president reportedly grew uncomfortable in his small wooden seat. By the middle of the seventh inning he could bear it no longer and stood up to stretch his legs – whereupon everyone else in the stadium, thinking the president was about to exit, rose to show their respect. A few minutes later Taft returned to his seat, as did the rest of the crowd, and the "seventh-inning stretch" was born. A charming tale, but folklorists have a saying: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't. Consider the story of Brother Jasper of Mary, F.S.C., the man credited with bringing baseball to Manhattan College in the late 1800s. Being the Prefect of Discipline as well as the coach of the team, it fell to Brother Jasper to "supervise" the student fans at every home game. On one particularly hot and muggy day in 1882 during the seventh inning against a semi-pro team called the Metropolitans, the Prefect noticed his charges becoming restless. To break the tension, he called a time-out and instructed everyone in the bleachers to stand up and unwind. It worked so well he began doing it at every game. The custom later spread to the major leagues (as the story goes) after the New York Giants were exposed to it while playing Manhattan College at exhibition games. That, too, is an appealing tale, but still falls short of being the final word on the subject. Historians have found a document written in 1869 describing what can only be described as a "seventh-inning stretch" 13 years before Brother Jasper's moment of inspiration. It's a letter written by Harry Wright of the Cincinnati Red Stockings. In it he makes the following observation about the behavior of the crowd during the course of every game: "The spectators all arise between halves of the seventh inning, extend their legs and arms and sometimes walk about. In so doing they enjoy the relief afforded by relaxation from a long posture upon hard benches." Truth be known, we have no idea exactly where and when the custom of the seventh-inning stretch began, but based on the evidence that exists it's doubtful it originated with William Howard Taft, or even Brother Jasper. What we do know is that it's at least as old as 1869, that it cropped up in various places afterward and that it eventually became a solid tradition. No record of the phrase "seventh-inning stretch" exists earlier than 1920, when the practice was apparently already 50 years old. Where history cannot tell the whole story, folklore arises to fill in the gaps.

By David Emery Popular memory has been unkind to William Howard Taft, 27th President of the United States, who surely would have wished to be remembered for something nobler than his weight. At 300 pounds, he is the heaviest chief executive on record. It's the rare biographical sketch that doesn't mention the giant bathtub – large enough to hold four average-sized men – specially built for him in the White House. Baseball history has accorded him somewhat more dignity, for it was Taft who launched the tradition of the presidential first pitch on the opening day of the season. The occasion was a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics on April 14, 1910 at Griffith Stadium. Umpire Billy Evans handed Taft the ball after the introduction of the rival managers and asked him to throw it over home plate. He graciously assented. Nearly every U.S. president since Taft (the sole exception being Jimmy Carter) has opened at least one season by tossing out the first ball. Legend has it Taft inspired another baseball tradition that same day, quite by accident. As the game wore on, the rotund, six-foot-two president reportedly grew uncomfortable in his small wooden seat. By the middle of the seventh inning he could bear it no longer and stood up to stretch his legs – whereupon everyone else in the stadium, thinking the president was about to exit, rose to show their respect. A few minutes later Taft returned to his seat, as did the rest of the crowd, and the "seventh-inning stretch" was born. A charming tale, but folklorists have a saying: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't. Consider the story of Brother Jasper of Mary, F.S.C., the man credited with bringing baseball to Manhattan College in the late 1800s. Being the Prefect of Discipline as well as the coach of the team, it fell to Brother Jasper to "supervise" the student fans at every home game. On one particularly hot and muggy day in 1882 during the seventh inning against a semi-pro team called the Metropolitans, the Prefect noticed his charges becoming restless. To break the tension, he called a time-out and instructed everyone in the bleachers to stand up and unwind. It worked so well he began doing it at every game. The custom later spread to the major leagues (as the story goes) after the New York Giants were exposed to it while playing Manhattan College at exhibition games. That, too, is an appealing tale, but still falls short of being the final word on the subject. Historians have found a document written in 1869 describing what can only be described as a "seventh-inning stretch" 13 years before Brother Jasper's moment of inspiration. It's a letter written by Harry Wright of the Cincinnati Red Stockings. In it he makes the following observation about the behavior of the crowd during the course of every game: "The spectators all arise between halves of the seventh inning, extend their legs and arms and sometimes walk about. In so doing they enjoy the relief afforded by relaxation from a long posture upon hard benches." Truth be known, we have no idea exactly where and when the custom of the seventh-inning stretch began, but based on the evidence that exists it's doubtful it originated with William Howard Taft, or even Brother Jasper. What we do know is that it's at least as old as 1869, that it cropped up in various places afterward and that it eventually became a solid tradition. No record of the phrase "seventh-inning stretch" exists earlier than 1920, when the practice was apparently already 50 years old. Where history cannot tell the whole story, folklore arises to fill in the gaps.

It’s a Saturday in May. I could be home, curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I’m sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park. An icy wind creeps through my winter jacket. I blow on my hands wishing I’d brought my woollen mittens. “Mrs. Bodmer?” It’s my son’s coach. “I thought you’d like to know. We’re going to start your son today in right field. He’s worked hard this year. We think he deserves the opportunity.” “ Thanks,” I say feeling proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how bad he wants to start. I’m glad his hard work is being rewarded. Suddenly I’m nervous for him. I go to the concession stand and buy hot chocolate. Back in my seat I hold it between my hands blowing the steam into my face for warmth. The team, in their white and blue pinstripe uniforms, struts on the field. They all look alike. I search for my son’s number. It isn’t there. Instead, Eddie takes right field. I look again unbelieving. Yes, it’s Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team. How can that be? I glance at the coach, but he’s absorbed in the game. I want to run over and ask what’s going on, but I know my son wouldn’t like that. Over the last eight years I’ve learned the proper etiquette for moms, and talking to the coach during a game is definitely not acceptable. My son grips the chain link fence, which protects the bench from stray balls, and yells encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his nonverbals, but I know he has learned, like most men, to hide his feelings from the world. My heart breaks. So much hard work, so much disappointment. I don’t understand what drives young boys to put themselves through this. “Atta boy, Eddie,” yells someone nearby. It’s Eddie’s father. I can see him smiling, proud his son is starting. I shake my head because I’ve seen this man walk out of games when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. But for now, he’s proud. His son is starting. My son is on the bench. By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the cold, and my feet are numb, but I don’t care. My son has been called into the game and he’s about to come up to bat. I glance at the dugout. He stands, sorts through the batting helmets and chooses one. Please I pray, let him get a hit. He picks a bat and struts to the batter’s box. I grip the metal seat as he takes a couple of practice swings, adjusts his batting glove and steps up to the plate. The pitcher looks like and adult, I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate. Strike one. “Nice swing” I yell. The next pitch is a ball. “Good eye!, Good eye!” Strike two The pitcher winds up to throw. I hold my breath. Strike three. My son’s head hangs and he walks back to the dugout. I look away knowing there’s nothing I can do. For eight years I’ve been sitting here. I’ve drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten my share of green hot-dogs and salty popcorn. I’ve suffered from the cold and the heat, eaten dust, and sat in rain. Some people wonder why a sane person would go through this. It’s not because I want to fulfill my dreams of excelling at sports through my children. And I also don’t do this because of the emotional highs. Oh yes, there are a few. I’ve seen one or the other of my sons score the winning goal in soccer and hit home runs in baseball and spark a come from behind in basketball. But mostly I’ve seen heartache. I’ve waited at home with them for a phone call telling them they’d made the team. Phone calls that never came. I’ve seen them sit on the bench game after game and get up to bat only to strike out. I’ve sat in emergency rooms, as their broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. I’ve watched coaches yell at them. I’ve sat here year after year observing it all and wondering why. The game is over. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddie’s dad is slapping him on the back with a big grin on his face. My son wants money for a hamburger. While I wait, the coach approaches me. I can’t bring myself to look at him. “Mrs. Bodmer, I wanted you to know that’s a fine young man you have there.” “Why?” I ask, waiting for him to explain why he broke my son’s heart. “When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him.” I turn to watch my son stuffing a burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?

It’s a Saturday in May. I could be home, curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I’m sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park. An icy wind creeps through my winter jacket. I blow on my hands wishing I’d brought my woollen mittens. “Mrs. Bodmer?” It’s my son’s coach. “I thought you’d like to know. We’re going to start your son today in right field. He’s worked hard this year. We think he deserves the opportunity.” “ Thanks,” I say feeling proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how bad he wants to start. I’m glad his hard work is being rewarded. Suddenly I’m nervous for him. I go to the concession stand and buy hot chocolate. Back in my seat I hold it between my hands blowing the steam into my face for warmth. The team, in their white and blue pinstripe uniforms, struts on the field. They all look alike. I search for my son’s number. It isn’t there. Instead, Eddie takes right field. I look again unbelieving. Yes, it’s Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team. How can that be? I glance at the coach, but he’s absorbed in the game. I want to run over and ask what’s going on, but I know my son wouldn’t like that. Over the last eight years I’ve learned the proper etiquette for moms, and talking to the coach during a game is definitely not acceptable. My son grips the chain link fence, which protects the bench from stray balls, and yells encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his nonverbals, but I know he has learned, like most men, to hide his feelings from the world. My heart breaks. So much hard work, so much disappointment. I don’t understand what drives young boys to put themselves through this. “Atta boy, Eddie,” yells someone nearby. It’s Eddie’s father. I can see him smiling, proud his son is starting. I shake my head because I’ve seen this man walk out of games when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. But for now, he’s proud. His son is starting. My son is on the bench. By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the cold, and my feet are numb, but I don’t care. My son has been called into the game and he’s about to come up to bat. I glance at the dugout. He stands, sorts through the batting helmets and chooses one. Please I pray, let him get a hit. He picks a bat and struts to the batter’s box. I grip the metal seat as he takes a couple of practice swings, adjusts his batting glove and steps up to the plate. The pitcher looks like and adult, I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate. Strike one. “Nice swing” I yell. The next pitch is a ball. “Good eye!, Good eye!” Strike two The pitcher winds up to throw. I hold my breath. Strike three. My son’s head hangs and he walks back to the dugout. I look away knowing there’s nothing I can do. For eight years I’ve been sitting here. I’ve drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten my share of green hot-dogs and salty popcorn. I’ve suffered from the cold and the heat, eaten dust, and sat in rain. Some people wonder why a sane person would go through this. It’s not because I want to fulfill my dreams of excelling at sports through my children. And I also don’t do this because of the emotional highs. Oh yes, there are a few. I’ve seen one or the other of my sons score the winning goal in soccer and hit home runs in baseball and spark a come from behind in basketball. But mostly I’ve seen heartache. I’ve waited at home with them for a phone call telling them they’d made the team. Phone calls that never came. I’ve seen them sit on the bench game after game and get up to bat only to strike out. I’ve sat in emergency rooms, as their broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. I’ve watched coaches yell at them. I’ve sat here year after year observing it all and wondering why. The game is over. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddie’s dad is slapping him on the back with a big grin on his face. My son wants money for a hamburger. While I wait, the coach approaches me. I can’t bring myself to look at him. “Mrs. Bodmer, I wanted you to know that’s a fine young man you have there.” “Why?” I ask, waiting for him to explain why he broke my son’s heart. “When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him.” I turn to watch my son stuffing a burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?

Minor Mosquito AA - Southwest London Champions Mosquito AA - St. Thomas Champions Mosquito A - Oakridge Champions PeeWee A - E.B.B.A. Champions Minor Bantam AA - E.B.B.A. Finalists Bantam A - Southwest London Finalists Minor Midget AAA - Badgers Finalists Midget AAA - Badgers Champions Midget AA - Oakridge Champions Junior C - St. Thomas Champions