Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Children of the Dust - 1. The Summer of Seventy-Four
The summer of seventy-four stands out in my mind because of baseball. Major League Baseball to be precise. Dad had taken me to watch the A’s play at the Oakland Coliseum, the moment mom would trust him to be alone with me. She hated the game and would rarely go to one. In nineteen seventy-two and nineteen seventy-three, the A’s won the World Series. The fans flocked to the stadium the year following each win. Dad and I were amongst them.
I attended my first Oakland A’s game while I was still wearing diapers; I had my first baseball glove soon after I stopped wearing them. Once those were gone, and I was able to hold a bat in my tiny hands, I was playing T-Ball. If my father pushed me into baseball at an early age, I soon turned the tables on him, and I was the one pushing him. Forget the comics; I wanted the sports page so I could scrutinize the box scores for the previous day’s games. I monopolized the TV to watch games and pestered any adult I came in contact with about the game. I was obsessed with the national pastime.
As an eight year old fan, my heroes were Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Vida Blue, and Rollie Fingers. My hitting was okay. I’d never be a Jackson, but I could pitch. Boy could I pitch. The heat was with me at an early age. I could throw a fastball, and eventually a curve and a slider. I was always ready to play, always asking the coach to put me in.
During the nineteen seventy-four season, I’d drag my father out to the stadium early, so I could watch batting practice, and try to get players’ autographs. Reggie was Mr. October in Oakland, before his years in Yankees pinstripes made the nickname known all over the land. Catfish won the Cy Young Award for the American League that year, after winning twenty-five games. Fingers’ handlebar mustache is most likely the cause of my fascination with facial hair, even if I’ve never been able to grow one myself. I collected their autographs, and those of many of the other players, on baseballs and multiple baseball cards.
The A’s won their third consecutive World Series championship that October, beating the Los Angeles Dodgers in five games. I was in the stands for the three games played in Northern California.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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