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Boston Braves pitcher Warren Spahn on Sept. 28, 1952. [AP Photo/John Lindsay]

Seeing this photo of Warren Spahn reminds me of the TV ad I made with him for Champlain Oil Co. in Oklahoma City. He pitched to me (the batter) and my older brother was the catcher. I remember it was a wiffle ball Mr. Spahn was throwing and I wouldn't swing if I thought it was a ball. After two or three takes, with me just standing there watching the ball, the ad man told me to swing, no matter where the ball went. The next pitch was way high, but I swung my guts out anyway. I remember seeing myself on TV with the Great Oklahoman Warren Spahn.

Here is an article from a 72-year old Oklahoman about his memories of baseball, growing up in OKC. I'm sure many of you can relate. He mentions playing with the neighborhood kids in the empty lots we seemed to always have around our houses, and he seems to have attended the same Kansas City A's vs NY Yankees game that I did in 1963, in Kansas City.

'Love of sports began with baseball'

I am 72 years old and for many years now the primary source of sports zeal for me has been as a college football fan. It was not always that way. My love of sports began with baseball.

At the age of 5 I became a very severe asthmatic. For a time it was so bad I could not attend school (in the 1950s). There were nights when I slept in a chair enveloped by a steam tent to enable me to breathe. My father thought it unlikely I would ever play sports, but did play catch with me and taught some about batting.

When I was in the fourth grade, baseball teams where chosen on the playground at recess. I had never played and, I suppose it was obvious to all who came out. When teams were chosen, there was an odd number of players. Instead of being chosen last, I was not chosen at all.

That evening one of the team captains called me at home and told me he would like for me to play on his team. I was overjoyed to be included, to have this opportunity to participate. He knew I was a poor bet. Thank God for his awareness or parents’ counsel in making the call.

The grade school guys recognized that I wrote left-handed and was batting right-handed. I didn’t even know you could bat left-handed and when they showed me, my hitting and confidence soared.

You see, baseball was my sport. Its slow pace that fans often complain about was perfect for an asthmatic kid who needed opportunities to catch his breath. Furthermore, I was scrawny, a grade above Mahatma Ghandi. I didn’t have the wind for basketball and was pretty undersized for football. I needed long huddles! But in baseball, I could not only catch my breath, I could work to hit for average instead of power, learn to bunt, perfect a slide and run fast since I had time to recover. Sadly, although fielding was a skill I could have developed, I never did that consistently.

From the sandlot, I discovered America’s pastime. Those were the days of the Saturday afternoon “Game of the Week” hosted by Dizzy Dean. I first fell in love with the Milwaukee Braves. My father was a Yankees fan and I embraced the team that beat them in the 1957 World Series. I discovered if you wrote to a MLB team they would mail you a number of team artifacts, for free. I could even write individual players, enclose a post card, they would autograph and return it. I got Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, Joe Adcock and one non-brave, Stan Musial.

My friends and I spent much of our meager disposable income on baseball cards. When we played inside we would trade cards and create our own fantasy teams.

But I could play baseball! It was the baby boom days. There were vacant lots in our neighborhood and all summer long we would have sandlot games. There were enough boys in the neighborhood within a 4 year age range to get two full teams together. A couple of us would get on the dial phones, set a time, call the other guys and go play. I imagine our stay-at-home moms were glad to have us out of the house. Yes, this was Oklahoma and yes we did still play if the temperature was 105 degrees.

One of my friends had a grandmother who lived in Kansas City and was a baseball fan. In the summer of 1963, he invited me to spend a week with him at her Kansas City home. I had never been out of Oklahoma or Kansas. The fountains, the Country Club Plaza, what a treat they were. But the real treat was Granny took us to six games at old Municipal Stadium, home of the Athletics. The first game we attended we were able to sit near the dugouts and players signed autographs for us. Then the game, Early Wynn, an aging pitcher who had been stuck on 299 wins for more than a season, got the start for Cleveland. He pitched five innings. The tribe led 5-4. If the Athletics would continue in their mediocrity, we would, yes, they did, and we saw Early Wynn get his 300th victory. The next weekend was saw a doubleheader with the classic Yankees team: Mantle, Berra, Howard, Skowron, and others.

Many years later I lived in Kansas City as adult. A friend and I would occasionally go from our downtown offices directly to Royals Stadium. We would eat a hotdog and watch batting practice. That included Carl Yastremski among others. General admission tickets were $1.50. We were there the night in 1976 when the Royals clinched their first trip to the playoffs, even though they lost that game. Cookie Rojas pitched his glove, ran to the outfield and jumped in the water display.

Baseball for me, became softball. One of the great attributes of the sport is its adaptability for long term exercise and fellowship. From 1973-1996, around age 48, like many others, slow pitch softball was a treasured pursuit. Church leagues, both male and co-ed provided memorable fellowship as well as an outlet. I am convinced there is softball in heaven. But when I no longer craved 7 innings of play and hoped to be limited to 3.5 innings, I knew the end was near.

I admire the Thunder, but its Dodger season tickets that I buy. Yes, the game is slow, but it is a relaxing evening and the crowds are manageable. My love of sports began with baseball, and I still love it.

Rev. Stan Basler