When I was growing up, we stood on the front porch of the friend we wished to see and yelled his name repeatedly. If no one answered, we’d walk to the side door. The quickest responses usually came from the front.
Bill Graham lived across the street. His call went something like this. Billeeee! Billeeee! Billeeee! Most of the time he’d show up, and we were off. If his mom came to the door I’d say, “Hi Billy’s mom. Can Billy come out to play?” As I got older, she became Mrs. Graham and then Polly. Things became less formal.
Bill was either free to go, or his mom laid out a timeline for me. Sometimes he was gone with his dad, sometimes doing chores, and other times he was grounded. That was a bummer. Once he came out, we’d gather up the rest of the guys and head to the park for a baseball game. We played at least two games a day, sometimes three. We walked to the park or rode our bikes.
When we rode, we placed our baseball gloves on the handlebars, held a ball or bat in one hand, and steered the bike with the other. We’d pick up the Presteds, Matsons and the Contis on our way. If they chose to walk to the park, we’d walk our bikes as well. Adventurous souls, who didn’t have immediate access to their bikes, rode on the handlebars of a friend. These guys were the real dare devils of the neighborhood. Sometimes I’d ride around the block to recruit Mitch and his brother, Jim, for our game. Most of the time they were already there. There was no calling one another on the phone, and texting wasn’t a thing. There was no social media or cell phones. If we couldn’t locate one of the kids, we’d look for his bike. We knew he’d be nearby.
All plans were made face to face. Sometimes we discussed things in school and arranged a time to “meet up”. Our daily schedules were dictated by breakfast, lunch and dinner. We scheduled school and baseball around our meals. Each day ended when the porch lights came on. Summers were the best because we had more time to play. Those with “chores” did most of them early in the morning. I had to keep my room clean, make my bed, mow and trim the lawn, pull weeds, and when “in season”, pick raspberries from the patch behind our garage.
If none of the guys was available, I headed to our backyard. I’d throw a tennis ball at the back roof and play catch with myself. If I hit the angle of the roof just right, I could make diving catches or bounce them far enough that I’d have to race back to catch the ball over my shoulder like Willie Mays. If I hit the chimney the ball shot back so I could practice catching line drives. I’d practice fielding grounders by throwing the ball against the side door of our garage. Using the door worked well until I hit it too many times and broke it. That was after several years of abuse. We never used the door for anything else, so I didn’t get in trouble when it cracked open.
Bill and Mitch sometimes joined in the tennis ball roof toss. We’d play a game made of singles and outs. One guy threw the ball off the roof, and if it fell to the ground, you counted it as a base hit. If the other guy caught it, it was an out. We had to keep track of “invisible” men on “invisible” bases. If the ball hit the ground four times before three balls were caught, the invisible men earned your team a run. Balls off the chimney were the most difficult to catch. The games were tight because we all did a good job of catching the ball.
The part of my childhood I remember most fondly is the kids in the neighborhood. We lived a Hallmark movie with great friends and good times.