Old baseballers

A few years ago, I went to Skiatook to watch my great-grandson play baseball. I pulled my rolling seat up beside the bleachers where my granddaughter was seated and settled in.

After visiting a few minutes, she leaned in and said, “See the man sitting by himself in the bleachers behind home plate?”

I looked in the direction she had indicated and spotted a slender man about my age to whom folks seemed to be giving a wide berth. I said, “Yes.”

She said, “They say he played for the Cardinals. I hear he can be real grouchy, doesn’t want anybody sitting around him.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “His grandson plays on Dason’s team” I responded with a thoughtful, “Huh.” Mostly out of curiosity, I looked at him more closely. There are a few people like my dad whose looks just don’t change much as they age. I had a recognition reflex and I almost whispered to myself, “I know that guy.”

“Is his name Blaylock?” My granddaughter nodded in the affirmative. I sat for a time, casting a quick furtive glance toward the man. Then I said, “Bob Blaylock. Muldrow.”

I gradually began to recall him. Bob was a couple of years older than me. A celebrity among high school athletes of our day. If you were a high school boy and you hit against Bob, you would never forget it.

Now, Stigler never played Muldrow but in the mid-1950’s American Legion, town and other amateur baseball teams flourished like mosquitoes in the Arkansas River bottoms. And believe me swatting mosquitoes in twinight doubleheaders was a second sport. Bob and I were both beneficiaries of such leagues.

I didn’t actually know Bob but we had been on the same diamond at the same time. That counts in my book.

So, I got up and told my granddaughter, “Cover me. I’m going to go speak to him.” From her expression, she had doubts.

I said, “Well, you’ll either hear laughter or you’ll hear me getting cussed out.”

As I recall, she just kind of shook her head in disbelief.

I took my cane off the walker, vanity, and moved that way. I extended my hand and said, “Hal McBride from Stigler.”

I waited. He broke a half-smile and said, “Sit down.” I did.

I told him I would have used the Pete Rose philosophy of “See the ball, hit the ball” against him but I never could see the ball. Truth is Bob’s fastball was fast and quick. His control was sketchy. In that day of no helmets, only the foolish and naïve dug in too deep. If he didn’t occasionally throw me an off-speed pitch, I’d never have hit a loud foul off of him.

We talked about mutual friends in the St. Louis Cardinals organization. Mostly, Freddie McAlester and the Scottsdale gang he and Patti introduced Billie and me too, and Dick LeMay. Then, the game and our talk ended.

Bob died September 1, 2024. I understand that shortly before his death the Tulsa Drillers arranged for Bob to throw out the first pitch. His son was the catcher. Selfishly, I wish I could have rolled my walker up to home plate and tried for one last time to hit him.

“Don’t look back. Something might be gainin’ on you.” — Satchel Paige

Hal McBride writes a column, Just Thinkin’, published each week.