For the Love of the Game

May I offer two baseball events this weekend that prove there is Joy in Mudville.

The first will be held tomorrow morning at 8 at Frontier Field. The brainchild of Brendan O’Riordan and Tony Wells, it is called the Challenger Baseball World Series and will feature close to 300 kids, ages 6-18, from the Rochester area and beyond.

Each of these kids faces physical, mental and/or emotional challenges, but you’d never know it while watching them experience the thrill of wearing uniforms and playing ball. I’ve been a volunteer for most of the 19 years it’s been staged, first at old Silver Stadium and now at Frontier. And each time I come away feeling as if I’ve received much more than I’ve given.

The event is free and open to the public, and will run until about 11:30. So please stop by and cheer on these young ballplayers. They’ll make you feel like a million dollars.

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The second event in which you’ll observe the unbridled joy of sports is the Silver Base Ball Park League, which begins its 11th season at Genesee Country Village & Museum in Mumford, about 25 minutes southwest of Rochester, Sunday at noon.

We have a doubleheader involving our four teams and we’ll be playing games according to 1865 rules. We don’t wear gloves (yes, I know that sounds crazy) but we do wear funny-looking uniforms like the Flower City uni you see me wearing in the photo on this page. It’s a heck of a lot of fun, and you get to see a bunch of guys who – like those Challenger Baseball players – really do play for the love of the game.

There are plenty of other neat things you can do during your visit to the nation’s third-largest living history museum, which features more than 50 historic buildings and houses, including the boyhood home of Kodak founder, George Eastman.

I can’t think of a better way to spend Father’s Day than to play a little base ball, 19th century style.

If you do make it to the ballpark, please say hello and make sure you root for Flower City – we’ll be the guys in the red socks. (Believe me, wearing red isn’t always easy for a guy who’s been following the guys in the blue Yankee pinstripes since 1961.)

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Finally, I’d like to give special shoutouts to Red Wings general manager Dan Mason and team organist Fred Costello.

Mase and the Wings have been kind enough to host the Challenger World Series all these years, but it appeared that this year’s event was in jeopardy after the Indianapolis-Rochester game was postponed last night because of travel problems. The cancellation meant the Wings have to play a day-night doubleheader on Saturday, starting at 1.

Rather than disappoint all those kids and their parents by canceling the World Series, Mase worked it out so that the Series would start at 8 rather than 9.

Classy move.

And congratulations to Fred, who will receive the International League’s Spirit Award in honor of his more than three decades of entertaining the fans. Fred has tickled the ivories at more than 2,500 Wings games through the years.

A championship for some guys who really do play for the love the game

OK, before I deal the dirt on the Bills embarrassing 28-point loss this afternoon to the Miami Dolphins, I’d like to doff my cap to the 19th century baseball club I play for – the Excelsiors.

The word “excelsior’’ means “ever higher,” and Sunday afternoon we went as high as we can go in our vintage base ball league by winning the Mayor’s Cup with a 12-7 victory against a gritty Knickerbockers squad at the Genesee Country Village and Museum in beautiful Mumford.

I was fortunate to be the winning pitcher, but that never would have been possible without a lot of help from my teammates, who baled me out of a 6-0 crater after just two innings.

We received spectacular defensive plays from Jeff Piper, our behind (hey, that’s what they called catchers back in the day), second basetender Curt “The Barber’’ Kirchmaier, center fielder “Dangerous’’ Todd Draper and leftfielder Jose “All Day’’ Pagan. Jose, who can track down fly balls with the best of them, deserves particular praise because he was playing with a broken finger (a serious obstacle considering we don’t wear gloves.)

Piper also had a superb afternoon striking the ball, as did our whole club, really. Our bats awakened after a lethargic start, and although we didn’t match our output of the previous two matches (29 and 22 runs), we scored enough to secure our second Cup in the 9-year history of the league.

So please indulge yours truly, aka Scott the Scribe, as I thank our captain and hot-hitting shortstop, Ryan “Doc’’ Brecker, for his leadership in juggling a formidable lineup that rivals the modern-day Yankees as far as run production is concerned. Besides the aforementioned base ballists, our championship wouldn’t have been possible without the father-son power-hitting duo of Andy “Frenchy’’ Cardot and Andy “House’’ Cardot; hard-hitting, fleet-footed third base tender Steve “Bo Lightning’’ Ost; hurler Mike Gruschow, who limited the Knickerbockers to 1 run in four innings to pick up the save, and rightfielder Sean Pieken, who’s another stick to be reckoned with.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention two guys who didn’t play Sunday, but who have been an integral part of our team for some time now – Max “Country Mile’’ Robertson, who was on the DL after recent foot surgery, and Scott Peters, who is serving our country in Iraq and to whom we dedicated this championship.

Thanks again, guys. As they said in the 19th century: “Huzzah!’’

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No “huzzahs!’’ for the Bills after their uninspired effort in South Florida.

Their woefully inexperienced offensive line was exposed again, yielding six sacks and failing to launch a ground game. The return of fresh-legged Marshawn Lynch from his three-game suspension was supposed to give the offense a boost, but he managed just four yards on eight carries. Quarterback Trent Edwards regressed some more, throwing three interceptions, including a pick-six for a Miami touchdown, as Buffalo converted just 1-of-11 third downs. And the Bills injury-depleted defense didn’t perform much better, allowing Ronnie Brown to run wild as the Dolphins racked up 250 yards rushing and controlled the clock for more than 37 minutes.

You would think that the Bills will be able to regroup against the winless Cleveland next week at the Ralph, but that game no longer can be viewed as a gimme because Buffalo is reeling while the Browns finally showed some signs of life in an overtime loss to Cincinnati.

Beleaguered and occasionally befuddled Bills coach Dick Jauron said he never considered yanking Trent Sunday and replacing him with Ryan Fitzpatrick. But calls for the backup quarterback are sure to grow louder this week, as will the calls for Jauron’s head. They lose to the Browns and things will get really ugly.

Men will be boys

This old codger is heading out to Silver Ball Park at the Genesee Country Village and Museum Sunday afternoon to begin his ninth season of 19th century base ball (yes, it was two words back then.)

Most normal men my age (egads! 54), have more sane hobbies.

Then, again, no one ever accused me of being sane.

Putting on a baseball uniform – even a funny one like the old, old-fashioned ones we wear – still is a transformative experience for me. It takes me all the way back to my Little League days at Pinti Field in Rome, N.Y.

We have a four-team league at the museum, representing ballclubs that existed in this area during the Civil War days. I play for the Excelsiors. Others play for the Rochesters, Live Oak and Knickerbockers. And there's also two women's teams - the Brooks Grove Belles and Priscilla Porter's Astonishing Ladies Base Ball Club.

We play on Saturdays and Sundays throughout the summer, culminating with the playoffs in early October. And we host a national tournament in August with teams from around the Northeast, Midwest and Canada.

The museum is one of our area’s hidden treasures. Not only can you take in a vintage base ball game, but you can also visit a number of homes and buildings on the grounds from an earlier era.
So if you are not doing anything, take a drive – it’s only about 25 minutes from RahChaCha and about an hour from Buffalo.

In honor of our opener, I’m re-running a column I wrote six years ago to give you a feel for baseball from a simpler time. Some of the rules have changed since this was published, but, hopefully, it will give you a sense for old-style base ball before it was ruined by multi-year contracts and steroids.

THE ROOTS OF THE GAME

When I told one of my son's Little League baseball teammates that I play in a 19th century league where they don't use gloves, he looked at me as if I had three eyes. He wondered if I also played football without a helmet and drove my car blind-folded.

"You mean you catch the ball with your bare hands?" he asked. "Geez, that must hurt like hell."

At times, it does.

Jammed and broken fingers occasionally are the price we pay to transport ourselves and visitors to the Genesee Country Village & Museum back in time. But any vintage baseballist worth his salt will tell you that the price is right. We are having too good a time to be stopped by minor inconveniences such as bruised hands or bloody knees.

In many respects, we are like those folks who reenact Civil War skirmishes. We enjoy interpreting history. We believe the past helps us understand the present and the future.

Plus, we are hams.

The thespian and the little kid in us often come out during these matches. The diamond is our stage and our playpen. This is one of those places where men will be boys.

There are some obvious differences between us and our Civil War brethren. For starters, we interpret the 1800s on a ballfield rather than a battlefield. We wield double-knobbed, bottle-shaped bats rather than rifles with bayonets. And the ball, while capable of hurting you, isn't nearly as hard as a bullet or a modern-day hardball. It is made of a leather cover wrapped around yarn and an India rubber core. (For that, we are thankful.)

We all go by nicknames. Yours truly is "Scribe," after what I do for a living. We have a University of Rochester med student known as "Doc," a quick-footed leprechaun of an outfielder known as "Irish," a wily hurler we call "Perfessor," and a long-ball stroking first baseman known as "Country Mile."

In character, we often resort to language that sounds foreign to the 21st century fan. When we want a teammate to hustle, we implore that he show a little ginger. Our bats are willows, our ball an apple, pill, horsehide or onion. The catcher is a behind, infielders are basetenders, and outfielders scouts. A daisy cutter is a well-hit grounder, while a dew drop is a slow pitch. Batters are strikers and fans are cranks.

The rules sound foreign, too. Pitches are delivered underhand with a locked elbow - slow-pitch softball style without the arc. A striker can ask the umpire to tell the hurler exactly where to place the pitch. Foul balls don't count as strikes, but if you catch one on the first bounce, the striker is out. The one-bounce rule also is in effect for fair balls.

Hitters are required to bat flat-footed. There is no striding into the ball, meaning your power must be generated by your arms and torso. (Our game is a chiropractor's dream.)

The umpire has final say in all matters, though on occasion he'll seek the help of the fans or the tallykeeper.

Matches are truly social events. There are pre-game parades through the village, featuring military bands and horse-drawn wagons. Players court single women at the park (that hasn't changed) and reporters (that has). Positive publicity occasionally can be garnered by bribing a base ball scribe with a bottle of his favorite whiskey. (Sportswriters clearly had lower standards in those days.)

Playing surfaces are rocky and uneven. True hops are the exception rather than the rule, even at lush, green Silver Base Ball Park, the only 19th century replica diamond in the United States.

Our uniforms are somewhat odd looking. We wear wool-blend long-sleeve jerseys with bow ties and caps that remind you of a railroad conductor. Metal spikes aren't allowed. Neither are Nike swooshes or adidas stripes.

The emphasis is on hitting 'em where they ain't rather than over the fence. Sorry, Mr. Bonds, but home runs are looked down upon. Singles hitters are the rage in vintage base ball, particularly those who can direct the ball to the opposite field. There is no stealing or leading off, and bunting is frowned upon, though some attempt to cloud the issue with what is known as a slow hit.

The game we interpret stresses sportsmanship and gentlemanly behavior. Players blurting profanity are usually hit with a fine by the umpire.

We interpret a purely amateur game. We are a century removed from the era of whiny millionaires. When we say we play for the love of the game, our words are as solid as one of our northern white ash willows.

Although I've competed in the 19th century game for three years, I'm still learning that I have to unlearn so many 20th and 21st century rules. This is not your father's game. Or your grandfather's game, for that matter.

But it is a lot of fun. An opportunity to take ourselves and others back, back, back in time.