Submitted Photo The former Pangolin Street softball field in Dunkirk.

Back in the late 1970s, I agreed to umpire in one of the early renditions of the First Ward Falcon Club Fastpitch Softball Tournament. Organizer Mike “Harvey” Tofil called needing help for the finale of the prestigious three-day, double-elimination event.

I was a relatively new umpire, passing the Chautauqua County Baseball Umpires Association course memorably delivered by legendary rules interpreter Larry Rodgers in 1976. My daughter, Erica Rose, would be born that November and my wife Patty and I were not surprisingly in need of some ready cash that amateur umpiring provided.

Beginning in the mid-60s with Little League, and later in Babe Ruth, Grape Belt and City League softball, I had called balls and strikes for a few bucks now and again when not playing first base in a variety of baseball and softball leagues.

Arriving early that Sunday morning in mid-July to the now-defunct Pangolin Street field, it was dusty and vacant. Little did I know my funniest sports memory was about to occur.

Affectionately known as Pango Pango by some in a nod to a World War II Pacific Ocean island, the site had been a destination for city softball fans in the ’50s and early ’60s. It was then, Koch’s Brewery, Briggs Dairy, the Monnies and Falcons staged epic battles with hundreds of rabid spectators ringing the field.

Famed for its short right field, it was where left-handed sluggers Tony Fedor, Tom Cooper, Dale Till, Ron Bretz, Harry Szewczyk and “Sweet” Lou Ramos took regular aim at the roofs atop houses deep beyond the short fence and across the road on North Jerboa Street.

Back in the late 1970s, I agreed to umpire in one of the early renditions of the First Ward Falcon Club Fastpitch Softball Tournament. Organizer Mike “Harvey” Tofil called needing help for the finale of the prestigious three-day, double-elimination event.

I was a relatively new umpire, passing the Chautauqua County Baseball Umpires Association course memorably delivered by legendary rules interpreter Larry Rodgers in 1976. My daughter, Erica Rose, would be born that November and my wife Patty and I were not surprisingly in need of some ready cash that amateur umpiring provided.

Beginning in the mid-60s with Little League, and later in Babe Ruth, Grape Belt and City League softball, I had called balls and strikes for a few bucks now and again when not playing first base in a variety of baseball and softball leagues.

Arriving early that Sunday morning in mid-July to the now-defunct Pangolin Street field, it was dusty and vacant. Little did I know my funniest sports memory was about to occur.

Affectionately known as Pango Pango by some in a nod to a World War II Pacific Ocean island, the site had been a destination for city softball fans in the ’50s and early ’60s. It was then, Koch’s Brewery, Briggs Dairy, the Monnies and Falcons staged epic battles with hundreds of rabid spectators ringing the field.

Famed for its short right field, it was where left-handed sluggers Tony Fedor, Tom Cooper, Dale Till, Ron Bretz, Harry Szewczyk and “Sweet” Lou Ramos took regular aim at the roofs atop houses deep beyond the short fence and across the road on North Jerboa Street.

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HAMMOND,

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Foiling those hitters were veteran pitchers Joe Wdowiasz, Alex Uszacki, Don Reilly, Dan Mierzwa, Ron Hoffman and Tofil, among others. Good pitching always dominated local softball circles.

The temperature that morning was already in the high 80s, unbearably hot and sticky. It promised to be an uncomfortably long summer day.

Handed one new ball and one used ball by veteran tourney worker Tommy “Otto” Adamowicz, I was ready to begin my first of three games, all behind the plate.

As usual, my partner umping the bases was the young but eminently competent Rudy Thomas. Rudy and I had worked together many times, so many, in fact, we quickly dispensed with our pre-game conference on quirky tourney-specific rules and waited patiently for the teams to arrive.

We were alone until 8:50 a.m. when both Toronto-based clubs began to show up for the 9 a.m. losers bracket battle.

The talented but unorthodox Canadians loved coming to the yearly event on the southern shores of Lake Erie. Many brought their wives and small children to take advantage of the sandy beaches, playground and picnic areas. There were also numerous friendly bars and social clubs, but the top attraction was the JFK Swimming Pool where the admission price was 10 cents for children and a quarter for adults.

The visitors continually marveled at our city’s unrivaled recreational facilities across Wright Park and curiously and humorously referred to all game officials as “Umpy.”

Saddled with one loss apiece, each team faced the daunting task of winning at least five games that day just to reach the international tourney’s money round. They had played twice or more on Saturday, then spent most of the night partying at various local watering holes.

A caravan of vehicles reluctantly unloaded their sleepy, hungover human cargo, virtually all wearing dirty, sweat-stained uniforms. Pitchers and catchers were first to take the field, warming up and sobering up at the same time.

There was no pre-game batting practice or infield practice. There was no conversation either. A quick coin flip and game time was at hand. I was taking home a princely $7 per game, Rudy $5.

It was then the leadoff hitter slowly and hesitatingly approached my carefully whisked home plate. He was filthy, haggard and dragging his aluminum bat behind him, leaving a visibly crooked trail in the dirt. His hat was on backward and he was wearing sunglasses. He was barely awake and I had a premonition that something bad was about to happen. There was no way he would be able to dodge a high and inside fastball. He was totally wasted.

He pitifully shuffled into the batter’s box and rested his bat on his right shoulder, a universally bad sign.

When the first pitch snapped over the plate belt-high seconds later, it audibly popped the catcher’s mitt and I signaled strike one.

At that point, the batter appeared to wake from a coma. I truly believe he had lost consciousness for those few seconds, stirring only from his self-induced reverie by the smacking sound from the glove and my routine, muted call.

The catcher drew his hand back for a return throw to the pitcher, but was shocked into immobility when the thoroughly embarrassed batter suddenly screamed, “WHAT!!!”

The catcher and I were equally dumbfounded and agitated. Were we really going to have an argument on the first pitch of what promised to be an intolerably long and blazingly hot day?

The pitch could not have been better, a perfect strike. Together we stared in bemused amazement at the deranged batter, who tore off his sunglasses to reveal angry, bloodshot eyes. He was beyond outraged. He felt cheated. Confusion and fear were etched across his sunburned face.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN … STRIKE!” he bellowed louder.

He quickly gestured for some manner of acknowledgement or vocal support from his manager, who was busy exchanging lineups with his counterpart in the first-base base coaching box. The manager promptly and correctly ignored him and went back to scribbling in his scorebook.

The batter then immediately shifted his blustering gaze at me, then in rapid succession, the catcher, the plate, his bat, me again, the catcher again and finally the cloudless heavens, futilely looking, I assume, for some sort of divine intervention. To call him clueless would be a rank understatement.

Bewildered by this unnatural reaction to such a routine pitch, the catcher and I were rigid with shock and amazement.

We stared at him as if he were possessed by demons for a few agonizing seconds. What would this clearly crazed, obviously impaired, international maniac say or do next? Remember, he had a metal bat in his visibly shaking hands.

The catcher’s arm was frozen behind his shoulder in a throwing motion, while I was equally stiffened behind him, awaiting the madman’s next unhinged move.

Then, in an instant, a lightbulb seemingly went off inside the batter’s addled skull. It was as if he had experienced a miraculous revelation. Some higher power had thankfully intervened. He began slowly nodding his head in an a-ha moment of total clarity. Now smiling broadly, he was supremely confident he had figured out exactly what must surely have happened.

Gesturing to me and the catcher to lean in closer, he lurched into our game, shared personal space and cleared his throat.

Then with a straight face he whispered sincerely but plaintively a question l will never forget:

“Did I swing?”

I immediately began convulsing with laughter and dropped to one knee, while the poor catcher, still in his haunches and unable to stop howling, slowly toppled over across my impeccably clean home plate and into the other batter’s box. He was unable to get up for a full minute.

I have no recollection of anything else that transpired in that game, only that one unremarkable pitch and the indelible vision of the funniest thing I’d ever experienced on a ball field.

So thanks for the memories, Falcon Club Tourney, may your legacy long continue.

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Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor.