Sometime in the middle of my recent California cycling adventure, I wondered, what are we even doing, turning the pedals, for hours, every day?
The only thing I could come up with was extending our childhoods. We were men and women consciously choosing to be boys and girls of old.
Then, my peabrain shifted to my earliest memories of cycling in Louisville, KY in the late 1960s. When first learning to ride a bike, I remember someone, guessing an older sib, holding the seat and running alongside me until they weren’t. And then I remember swerving bigly, a few times right into metal mailboxes that dotted the edge of the road. Like Louisville’s own Cassius Clay, down goes Ron! Eventually, I swerved less and less.
My earliest, most vivid, fullblown cycling memory, was a year or two later, when I was dominating the kickball field at Zachary Taylor Elementary. It was this exact time of year, April, and Little League baseball tryouts were right around the corner.
Six or seven years old, my pals and I knew we needed a few hours of spring training before tryouts, so we laced our gloves onto some Louisville sluggers and laid them across our handlebars which we balanced precariously with balls bulging from our pockets. And then headed to a very nice, very large park, about a mile or two from our dented mailboxes.
Once we got to the park, we noticed the tennis courts sat under about 10 inches of water that had, until recently, been snow and ice covered. Maybe, we thought, as we took off our shoes and socks, we should splash around the courts a bit before officially starting spring training.
Within a few minutes, I sliced the bottom of my foot by stepping on a metal twist off beer top. The water turned red and I grew faint-headed. Someone hurriedly called my mom who lit into me. Since I’m the youngest of four, she was DONE with emergency rooms. On the way to get ten stiches, she got all up in my grill and said, “IF YOU EVER TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND CUT YOUR FOOT AGAIN, DON’T CALL ME!” Which is pretty damn funny now, given how kind and caring she normally was. Everyone has a breaking point.
I think this was a Thursday and tryouts were all day Saturday. Even though Spring Training was cancelled on account of blood, I rallied, and showed up at tryouts on crutches. Shagging fly balls like a young Ken Griffey and even chucking the crutches and hobbling into the batters box to take some ferocious cuts like a young Andy Pages. A legend in both Louisville Little League history and my own mind.
Needless to say, the coaches were impressed with my pluck. I vaguely remember a bidding war breaking out. I told the coach that finally landed me that I didn’t want a bag, but if he could do something nice for my mom, like maybe comp her snow cones for the season, I’d greatly appreciate it.
Pressing Pause 
Last game of my one year in Little League I lost a high popup in the sun and caught it with my left eye. Would have lost the eye if not for my dad’s quick action. While the coach just ignored me in the dugout, Dad grabbed ice from the snack bar and rushed me to an ophthalmologist. Wound up in the hospital for a week. The doctor later informed me that if he had tapped my temple, my eyeball would have escaped the confines of its customary orbit. So thankful my biggest hero retained his WWII first aid training.
ADub
Dang Dub, that’s an amazing story. Dad for the huge win!
When my boys were growing up, I was a stay at home mom scrambling around to preschool dropoffs, doctors appointments and play dates. I told your mom I accidentally missed a doctors appointment for one of them and she quickly told me that she had never done that (the mother of four). I quickly got the message and got my act together and never missed a doctors appointment or event. I loved she told me that and I never took it as criticism.
Haha, come on CJB, show just a little tact/diplomacy!
…ah my old Schwinn. Doing sliding skids in the garage. Packed up like you did for baseball practice. And before all the par-3’s became subdivisions, we would sling a bag over our shoulder and bike to play 9 for like five bucks for a day. Or until we lost all of our balls. I miss those days. Thanks for giving me that smile again Ron! Make it a great day!
Lovely blog
Thank you very much okeeffae.
Interesting how our childhood memories stick with us and play a part in our lives. I enjoy reading your post, Ron. Thanks for sharing.
I played for the little league Reds. It was the mid 70s and the Big Red Machine was all the rage. Summer daze…
I did too. Wrote the best sixth grade Johnny Bench bio ever after moving to SoCal. And I played for the Cubs. Too bad there are no baseball cards. :)
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Great read, I remember biking to baseball practice too.
I know how much I ‘date’ myself when I stare curiously at youth riding by on e-bikes. I was not aware pedals were so difficult. We lived on our bikes as youth.
But hey, if there were e-bikes back in the 60’s and 70’s… we probably would have wanted one. They’re not as cool as a shiney yellow Schwinn StingRay with a banana seat…but then…what really is! 🚵♀️
I did not start riding a bicycle until I came to Japan in my 20s. Out of sheer necessity. I bought a tricycle with movable handles and a cart in the rear. Yeah, I looked hilarious on it. But after a few months, I could transition without a hitch to a regular bike. And used the tricycle for heavy load shopping.
Otherwise, getting around would have been another kind of hell trying to 1. figure out destinations with bus signs in Chinese characters only (no English transliterations in those days), 2. ride a jam-packed bus, or 3. communicate in broken Japanese with drivers who would take me for being brain-impaired. Scenarios 1 and 3 actually happened to me at a train station and I hated myself for looking Asian during those early years.
I’ll get around to telling my childhood baseball memories (in an Asian Little League in Los Angeles), probably next week, due to my busy teaching life. Stay tuned.
Heartwarming post!
Time does strange things to us when we look back on our childhood. It’s like we look at our memories through a vintage lens that makes it look like it was taken from a Polaroid camera. But, at the end of the day, even though we can’t go back, I’d rather keep them the way they are. That’s what makes them special.
BBB
Finally I can write about my halcyon days of playing sports in my equivalent of Little League, in baseball and basketball, which you’ll find out is in extreme tongue-in-cheek.
I played in the CYC which I now learn stands for ” Community Youth Council “. I always assumed one of the Cs stood for Chinese since we were all Asians, but checking a webpage about the founder of CYC, and recalling my team members, I realized they were all Japanese Americans.
I played on a CYC team called the Hollywood Dodgers. Our team colors were orange red and white. My lone baseball season consisted of me being a reserve outfielder. I think all players were required to play at least half an inning or one at-bat. I think I batted only once. Bases were loaded with two outs. The manager told me to lean into the batters box, way in. I told the manager that I would get hit. Exactly. I took one for the team.
My one and done basketball season was on the erstwhile-named team. I remember it was predicted to win the league title. But the rule was that players were required to play for 10 minutes. Needless to say, I was afraid of the basketball, let alone being harassed by the opposing team. So whenever I got the ball, I just gave it to the other team. My team was 0-4 and the coach told me he wanted to talk to me after the game. I told him I would spare him the trouble; I quit. After that, I scoured the scores, and sure enough, the team won the rest of their games and the league title. I like to think of myself as the most valuable player: they would not have won the league if it were not for me…
LOL Ken.