Another back in the day...
Softball, as I've written before, was a big part of our lives as we grew up. Dad played in several leagues, but the best league was the beer league on Sunday mornings. The culmination of the Beer League team's season was a game at Lordship School's field, followed by a picnic at the school. The heat we've been having brought this particular game to mind - it was always this hot!
This happened on a Sunday, usually around Labor Day.
It was not an ordinary game, however. The team would choose sides, splitting into 2 teams. One of the teams would be required to dress as women, and play as women. While this may now be considered problematic, back in the day it was just funny as hell.
Bigger women in the neighborhood would be sought after, especially those who owned house dresses and were willing to loan a bra as well to the guys. Sneakers or cleats were all right, but a bra with falsies (do they still call them that?) was a requirement. It took at least a week for arrangements to be made, including the finding of wigs (also a requirement). No slacks were allowed for the "women's team", by the way.
No one thought to think of cross dressing, transvestites or drag queens. Entertainment was the key.
Dad was on the "women's team" regularly. Even now, I think he enjoyed that game just as much as the regular league games.
Part of the rules (if one could even call them that!) included the use of grapefruits. Those who were "women" for the game would get together, after buying a dozen or so grapefruits, and paint them white, marking softball stitching on the fruits after the white paint dried. This was usually on the Friday before the game and involved shot glasses and liquor. The first ones painted were the best ones. The last ones, well, hopefully the "men's team" would have hit the keg enough not to know the difference!
On the morning of the game, church was not a requirement...At the field, Stratford Bottling Company soda was loaded into big washtubs with ice. Kegs were brought to the field, and the long 'half a water heater' grill filled up with charcoal and started. Coolers were delivered with the rest of the necessary supplies.
By 1 p.m., the game began. "Women" in the outfield first - they were always home team. Some balls were hit out into the field, of course, and everyone watching got a kick out of those "women" running around trying to field the balls! Dad was usually the pitcher. At some point when there were 2 outs, he would turn around, crouch over a bit, and reach into his "bosom". A new ball would appear in his glove and he would loft a beautiful pitch that begged to be hit. The poor soul who smacked away at that gift ended up with grapefruit juice and pulp all over himself. The catcher and whoever was umping had been signaled by the turn around! Spectators fell out of their chairs, women peed their pants laughing, and the poor sucker at the plate ran over to the ice to clean himself off.
Of course, this went on for the next eight innings. The men never knew who would get the next fruit "ball", and began to be a bit afraid to hit the ball. They looked for "tells" - looked for Dad to crouch over, or to make strange movements, but he was very good at keeping the other team from knowing about the switch from ball to fruit.
The Firemen stationed at the Firehouse (they were all men then) would pop over to watch, and sort of kept the guys all honest about who hit what. The kids also were pretty good about remembering this kind of information and the players would have had a hard time claiming they "knew that ball wasn't a real ball"!
This happened on a Sunday, usually around Labor Day.
It was not an ordinary game, however. The team would choose sides, splitting into 2 teams. One of the teams would be required to dress as women, and play as women. While this may now be considered problematic, back in the day it was just funny as hell.
Bigger women in the neighborhood would be sought after, especially those who owned house dresses and were willing to loan a bra as well to the guys. Sneakers or cleats were all right, but a bra with falsies (do they still call them that?) was a requirement. It took at least a week for arrangements to be made, including the finding of wigs (also a requirement). No slacks were allowed for the "women's team", by the way.
No one thought to think of cross dressing, transvestites or drag queens. Entertainment was the key.
Dad was on the "women's team" regularly. Even now, I think he enjoyed that game just as much as the regular league games.
Part of the rules (if one could even call them that!) included the use of grapefruits. Those who were "women" for the game would get together, after buying a dozen or so grapefruits, and paint them white, marking softball stitching on the fruits after the white paint dried. This was usually on the Friday before the game and involved shot glasses and liquor. The first ones painted were the best ones. The last ones, well, hopefully the "men's team" would have hit the keg enough not to know the difference!
On the morning of the game, church was not a requirement...At the field, Stratford Bottling Company soda was loaded into big washtubs with ice. Kegs were brought to the field, and the long 'half a water heater' grill filled up with charcoal and started. Coolers were delivered with the rest of the necessary supplies.
By 1 p.m., the game began. "Women" in the outfield first - they were always home team. Some balls were hit out into the field, of course, and everyone watching got a kick out of those "women" running around trying to field the balls! Dad was usually the pitcher. At some point when there were 2 outs, he would turn around, crouch over a bit, and reach into his "bosom". A new ball would appear in his glove and he would loft a beautiful pitch that begged to be hit. The poor soul who smacked away at that gift ended up with grapefruit juice and pulp all over himself. The catcher and whoever was umping had been signaled by the turn around! Spectators fell out of their chairs, women peed their pants laughing, and the poor sucker at the plate ran over to the ice to clean himself off.
Of course, this went on for the next eight innings. The men never knew who would get the next fruit "ball", and began to be a bit afraid to hit the ball. They looked for "tells" - looked for Dad to crouch over, or to make strange movements, but he was very good at keeping the other team from knowing about the switch from ball to fruit.
The Firemen stationed at the Firehouse (they were all men then) would pop over to watch, and sort of kept the guys all honest about who hit what. The kids also were pretty good about remembering this kind of information and the players would have had a hard time claiming they "knew that ball wasn't a real ball"!
Comments
Post a Comment