Chicago Story: Spring Training

For the Three Guys, it's impossible to go through March without talking about what spring training meant when we played high school baseball together.
First of all, 'practice' in Chicago always started as a fresh coating of sleet was falling on the five inches of dirty snow still on the ground. So into the gym we went.
It is somewhat possible to successfully play catch across a basketball court, but not much else. We would take faux infield practice on the gym floor...a surface that created bounces so true that they were of absolutely no use once the real season began, since we never played on an infield without pebbles...and rocks...and sometimes, downright boulders.
We would spend endless hours on sliding practice--on a gym floor. There were some 'sliding pads' available, but they were generally of no use. As Oketo (our stolen base king) always comments, during the regular season he would only attempt a steal if he knew he could swipe the bag standing up. His haunches were still pocked with strawberries that never seemed to heal until fall.
We would run pretend infield cutoff plays indoors, with the second baseman intercepting a throw to second in order to return it to the plate before a runner could score from third. On one of these plays, Oketo was felled by a peg to the head--with no helmet to intercede. On another, a throw glanced off the tip of my webbing and cost me half of my left front tooth.
Hitting practice? That was a hoot. Think of a basketball court, and someone hitting live fastballs from one corner. When someone like Hortense was up, this was like trying to dodge live AK-47 rounds. Most of the fielders hid behind the gym mats hanging along the walls, and none of us will ever forget the sound of those line drives pounding against the leather. One day, evicted from the full gym, we retreated up to the 'girl's gym' on the second floor, where we pummeled the ceiling tiles of that little room with fly balls. On a reunion trip back last summer, we confirmed that the dents and divots are still up there.
Eventually, of course, we did get outside. No small number of our early games were played in snow flurries. I still fondly remember getting two line drive hits in a game where the snow flakes were so thick you could hardly see across the infield. (Unfortunately, I didn't hit nearly as well in the sunshine).
And if every dirt surface in the area were underwater, we would finally retreat to a place called LaBagh Woods, where we could set up a field on the all-grass pasture of a Forest Preserve. True, there were no puddles, but the grass was so mushy that it would often take half a minute just to run to first base.
These are conditions that were miserable. Unbearable. Sometimes almost inhumane.
And every spring...we wish we could go back. Even for a day.

diderot