Bat day:
June 20, 1965. While I don’t remember much of that day, just flashes and glimpses here and there, what I do remember is fantastic.
That day was the very first “bat day” at Yankee Stadium in New York City. That meant that anyone younger than 14 with a ticket received a FULL-SIZED Louisville Slugger-style little league bat made by the Hillerich & Bradsby Company. It came with the classic Hillerich & Bradsby of Louisville, Kentucky logo in the middle of the bat, as well as the top engraved with “New York Yankees” in script, and “Approved Little League.”
Mine also came with the engraved script of the ball player we all were in awe of: Mickey Mantle. I don’t know if other bats had other batters’ names on them, but mine had Mickey Mantle. It could have been a toothpick, but if it had Mickey Mantle’s name on it, I was in heaven. He was the ONLY batter worth having his name on MY bat.
I remember flashes of walking up winding stairwells to our seats. Bits of the game. Stopping somewhere along the way home at a hot dog stand. It was a glorious day in my book. And, let’s face it, for 1965, flat-out amazing, since I was a GIRL in a stadium full of boys.
A friend of my father’s had apparently arranged this. He, another family friend, and their two sons, one of whom was my football buddy, were going, and they apparently invited my father to join them. My father had no son, but, in all honesty, I was his substitute son in so many things, and I was the “oldest,” a ranking that my father identified with personally. So he took me, which was no small thing for the time. But my father was one to say to hell with what anyone else might have thought. And after all, his motto was always about not growing up to be a stupid woman, and his daughters were going to be something in a man’s world.
Whatever his exact reason or thinking that day, I had a great time. And most of all, I had THAT bat. We played with it all the time, using it for whiffle ball games, whether in the back street or in our yard. I treasured that bat, and it was like a gift from the gods.
The “oldest”
That term was mythical in how he viewed it. You’re the oldest. It was said as a designation of power, as well as responsibility. Rank, as well as privilege.
Along with the mantra of not growing up to be a stupid woman, the other one he drilled into me constantly was about my responsibility as that oldest child:
“You’re the oldest! You should know better!”
It was delivered whenever I failed to live up to his expectations about either doing something around the house or looking after my younger siblings. Quite often it came as a surprise to me, and when I heard it, I felt both shame and confusion. Shame because, yet again, I’d failed without even knowing it. And confusion, because I mostly wondered, “What was it that I was supposed to know better than the others?”
My father was very military in his bearing and approach to life and parenting. So in a way, he designated this as a “rank” based on experience and age. It was like I was in his “military.” There were things he expected of me, taught me (mostly) what I was supposed to be responsible for, then delegated that to me, and expected me to carry out his orders.
He also used this “oldest identity” as a bonding mechanism between him and me. He identified with me because he was the oldest in his family, as I was in mine. He saw that role in hallowed terms. He was responsible for his younger brothers and taking care of them. If they got into a fight and he didn’t defend them, his father would ream him out.
His mother used him, her oldest child, as a husband substitute. She would send him down to the “club” — the Slovak club where the men gathered on weekends to drink and get into fights — to drag his drunk father out of a fist-fight and bring him home. He was also the target of her rage at her husband…and her life in general — and so he was often physically abused. Her use of him as her support and whipping boy crossed emotional boundaries.
At the same time, she gave him the “perk or reward” for his status, of having his own room while the rest of the kids shared a room. I guess in the same manner, as he said one time, I had my own, as I was the oldest. But again, that brings up the whole question of why I was the only one who had a bedroom with a door and privacy. And in his house, there was something about his mother liking to give him enemas, her mantra being that the way to solve many ills was a good “physick.”
On the flip side of the responsibility and expectations, he also gave out perks, besides that room. The Yankee Stadium trip for sure was one. I was the one to receive the opportunities not always given to my younger siblings — something I did not realize at that time, and certainly something that generated envy and the perception of being the “favorite child.”
He would often take me with him to museums or out with his friends to go archery or rifle target shooting. I was gifted with my own archery bow and even got to participate in the town’s recreation department archery classes one summer. As an aside, it was a class full of boys and just one other girl, along with me. When we got to the final class, which was a competition, one boy, I, and she were neck and neck for first place. In the final shot, I ended up second, beaten out by the boy. And she came in third. Still, though, a pretty good showing.
But to come back to the expectations. It was understood that, as the oldest, I had both authority and responsibility whenever I went somewhere with my siblings, regardless of whether my parents were there or not.
In the summer, we would do a day trip to the Saratoga Horse Racing Track in New York. Each of us kids was given a set amount of money we could use to bet on horses we liked. It was my job to escort my siblings to the betting window. My parent stayed back at their seats.
I’d been taught the rules of horse race betting already, so I had to make sure everything went smoothly at the betting window for all of us.
For anyone unfamiliar with track betting, it works like this: When you place a bet, you have to specify what horse, how much money you want to bet — in our case $2 — and whether you want the ticket for “win, place, or show.”
- Win means that you expect the horse to come in first. If you bet this and the horse does come in first, you win the most money. But if the horse comes in second or third, you win nothing.
- Place means that you think the horse will come in second. If the horse comes in first or second, you win some money either way, but not as much as a first-place horse with a “win” ticket.
- Show means you think the horse will only come in third. However, whether it comes in first, second, or third, you will win some money. Show does not pay well, but it is a pragmatic bet because at least you win “something” if the horse places in the top three.
So, when you go to place a bet, you state “$2 on whatever horse, for whatever you think is best – win, place, or show. Then, and this is key, when you are at the betting window, after you ask for your ticket and hand over the money, you must stand there and check to make sure your ticket is correct, and if you are due any change, you must count your money before walking away from the window.
The minute you walk away from the window, that’s it. If something is wrong with your ticket or your change, it’s too late to do anything.
Once we placed our bets, we were allowed to roam the grounds. So it was my job to look after my siblings and be sure nothing happened to anyone. The grounds at Saratoga, which is an 1890s race track, are beautiful. So we would explore the winner’s circle, the exercise area, and watch the horses by their stables before going back to my parents.
Another job of mine during summer vacations was that if a few of us went downtown to the movies, I was in charge. I had to make sure everyone was safe, nobody got lost or lost their money, and especially that no one hassled them.
One time, coming home, a man, obviously drunk, approached us. The younger kids immediately ducked behind me. He staggered closer and stood there swaying. I was scared, but I was in charge, so I didn’t move. Fortunately, he was in a good mood, and seeing us, gave us a bunch of coins and wished us a nice day.
Perhaps the most telling of what was expected, though, was on a particular camping trip. While my parents relaxed at the site nearby, my siblings and I went to the playground. I was about 8 or so. While we were there, a boy decked out in a full cowboy outfit, complete with hat, boots, and pistols, showed up. He proceeded to bully one of my siblings and shook the slide, causing a near accident.
I walked up to him and told him to knock it off. He laughed and did it again. So again, I warned him and this time elevated the threat — that I would hit him if he kept it up.
Now, I really didn’t want to hit him. The idea of actually hitting someone’s flesh with my fist totally turned my stomach. I just hoped that if I threatened to hit him, it would be enough to scare him off.
I also knew my father was watching from a distance. He was not interfering — military rules — I was in command, so it was up to me to handle this. But he was watching to see if I would protect them or fail.
The kid ignored me and continued to harass my siblings. Even as I cringed, I decided I’d better act. So I took a swing to prove I meant what I said. But still, I did not want to feel what it was like to hurt someone. So I gauged it such that it would just miss him. He laughed.
That was the last straw. I decked him.
He ran off crying.
My father came over and congratulated me on doing the right thing and taking care of business. Just about that time, the kid came back, accompanied by his irate father. Irate, that is, until he saw that his precious little cowboy had been harassing a group of little girls. This was the 1960s. Culture rules were such that no self-respecting boy harassed girls. Further, boys were supposed to be stronger than girls, but a girl decked his son. And my father was there. The boy’s father quickly made his son apologize and dragged him off in embarrassment.
I was, of course, congratulated again and considered a hero and success in my father’s eyes. I, however, didn’t feel like celebrating. And I’ve never really felt good about that whole incident.
Now, if I failed at my job?
One time when I was only about 7 or 8, we went to Storytown USA, an amusement park in Lake George, NY. As we were leaving, my youngest sibling, about 3 or 4 at the time, had wandered away. There was a frantic but successful search, followed by hell raining down on me, for losing my sibling. Even at 7, this was “my fault.”
But the worst punishment came after another incident, and involved my precious bat. We were all out in the yard one evening playing whiffle ball. One of the kids was standing there at home plate just holding the bat. One of my siblings ran to home base and hit her head on the bat, and started crying. My father, enraged, grabbed the bat and flung it in the trash. We tried to explain that no one was swinging the bat; it was just a collision of people. But he wouldn’t listen. That was the end of the bat….
Finally, there is what the “real costs” were of being the oldest, and especially what those perks were all about:
- He was grooming me — good daddy showing a powerful dose of love
- This made it all the harder for me to “hurt his feelings” later if I tried to stop him
- It also made the shame worse because I’d been “ensnared” — by accepting without guile, moments of shared activities like archery, or the Yankees trip, I felt complicit, like I was partly responsible, and it was my fault
And there was one more cost of being the oldest under him — his self-hate and mother rage. His shame and his rage at himself for whatever his mother did to him, he transferred to me. If he saw me as weak, he raged. I suspect that as the helpless son of an abusive mother, he raged at his own perceived “weakness” then. And so he raged at me when he thought I was being weak or failing.
Essentially, whatever the supposed gifts I received or special treatment I was given, being the oldest was simply a trap for his referred anger, and his calculated abuse and molestations. Plain and simple.
There is a coda to the bat incident.
I did have the last word in this. A few years ago, as I reflected on all of this, I felt this strong need to see if I could find “that bat.” One from 1965, as I remembered it….the Mickey Mantle one.
After much searching, I found one on a collector’s site. I found that exact bat – it was even a little beat up, just like mine was, since we’d used it all the time. My husband even offered me whatever cash he had been saving for a new phone, just so I could get it. It turned out the price was reasonable enough so I didn’t need it, but his awareness of what this meant deeply touched me…as have so many of his loving gestures and moments of support over the years.
A few days later, the bat arrived. Opening it carefully, I pulled the paper away and felt a sensation of total joy as I stared at it. There it was…that familiar yellowish wood, the narrow handle. The beat-up end from hitting the ground, the worn but still visible etching of “Mickey Mantle, New York Yankees, and Approved Little League.” My joy was over the top, as if I’d finally been reunited with a long-lost relative.
But even more powerful than seeing it was the moment I touched it. It was like a jolt of electricity. Excitement raced through me. I wrapped my fingers around the wood handle and FELT that familiar narrow smoothness just settle right into my grip as if no time at all had passed! Joy, passion, a sense of literal physical power of youth shot through me — I felt HER again
That bat was yet another talisman, like the ham radio dials, my maps, and my chisel, connecting me directly back to that child again. It is perhaps the strongest talisman of all, like a portal for time travel.
Even now, every single time I touch it and hold that bat in my hands, I feel the POWER of THAT kid’s spirit from that time — the strength, energy, and hopefulness for a future dream, just like she felt all those decades ago. That bat has a power in me that even right now I feel like I could hit a baseball out of the park, even as I dare not at this point, given my eyesight and age. But oh, the power of that young girl, she still lives in me, and in that bat….
Soul Mosaic 