It was 1960 at St. Mary’s Elementary School in Dunkirk when my fourth-grade teacher Elsie Schmatz handed out Little League registration forms, probably in February or early March.

My recollection of the form was that it included a notice that anyone who had played the previous season did not have to register. Team managers would contact those returning players about practices sometime in April.

I was in that category. So I waited and waited and waited some more. Zip.

Finally my mom contacted the league and learned some unsettling news: my old team had moved to Fredonia.

Bill Hammond

She wasn’t happy to hear that and her mood didn’t get any better when she learned all Dunkirk rosters were now filled. Unfortunately, cuts had been made, and sadly, some little boys were not going to be playing ball this summer. I was in that category.

Not one to give up without a fight, she immediately contacted Fredonia Little League and learned that by rule, and Little League is all about rules, I was still the property of my original team.

I was now a member of the Fredonia Police.

I would play this season as a 9-year-old, but mom or dad would have to drive me to and from the field behind the old Eagle Street School in Fredonia for all practices and games.

If my parents were upset about this situation, they didn’t let me know about it.

Did I tell you I lived five blocks, easy biking distance, from the Dunkirk Little League field on upper Woodrow Avenue? Yup, Robin Street is right next to Woodrow Avenue.

I really only have two memories about my lost year in Fredonia.

See HAMMOND, Page B2

I vividly remember the first time I reached base that year. I was walked and when I got to first base, an older teammate acting as base coach passed along what he said were the manager’s words of wisdom.

“Never try to go to second unless the ball gets past the catcher,” he whispered in my ear.

“OK,” I quickly responded.

The catcher dropped the first pitch to the next batter and it rolled just behind his foot.

Taking the sage advice literally, I took off for second base. Not a wise move by the team’s slowest player.

I’d probably gotten four steps before I heard the base coach screaming, “Get back here, that’s not what I meant!”

But it was too late. I was a dead man walking. Yup, walking more accurately describes how fast I moved than running.

They were waiting for me at second base, but the throw was high. It bounced into the outfield and the crowd erupted.

All I heard was “Go, go, go” so I rounded second and headed for third. If there was a coach there I never saw him. All I remember was the third baseman waiting for the throw from the centerfielder.

I could see his eyes go from hopeful to disappointed and then heard the ball crash into the fence far beyond third base. He didn’t even bother to chase it down. The throw was that far off target.

The crowd was really into the folly that is inexperienced baserunning and the “Go” cheers reached an ungodly decibel level.

I hit third and headed home to score an undeserved team run to my very first cheers and more than a little laughter.

My teammates greeted me excitedly in my rightful role as the all-conquering hero of the moment. The coaching staff not so much.

My other memory was playing centerfield. I quickly learned the number one rule for playing the outfield – back up for the bigger players and move in for the shorter ones.

Well, up comes a shorter player and I move in, way in. I’m within spitting distance of the infield dirt behind second base.

My left fielder spots me and frantically says, “Back up, back up.”

When I answered “Why?” He yelled, It’s Harry O’Hara.”

For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. O’Hara, he was the future power-hitting catcher for Coach Roger Moore’s Fredonia High perennially championship teams and the backbone backstop for Coach Pete Criscione’s frequent champion D & F Rookies in the Grape Belt League.

And yeah, Harry was not the tallest guy on the field, but hit the ball farther than anyone else. These days he remains an age-group champion runner in his mid-70s.

But back to the game.

I barely had time to say, “Harry who?” before a line drive whistled over my head and hit the now far away centerfield fence.

One inside-the-park home run later and I knew exactly who Harry O’Hara was.

I backed up the next time he came to bat. Way up. Butt to the fence up.

***

DO YOU have a favorite, funny, weird, best or worst memory of Little League? Drop me a line at mandpp@hotmail.com and let’s reminisce.

Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER Sports Editor.