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Chapter 6: Over The Fence Again




     "Hey D'St, hey D'st, hey D'st, you da beast," I jabber as Anthony D'stefano takes the mound against Manville in the top of the seventh inning at the Codrington Park field.

"Stunad!" Heinzy groans, stifling a scowl at the steaminess of a May evening in central Jersey while stepping off the pitcher's rubber to check the runners at first and second base.



     The one thing I didn't like about being a shortstop was infield chatter, but it was a part of the game in those days. Baseball historians say it developed to cheer on the pitcher and harass opponents. I think it was more about keeping the infielders awake in a deathly slow inning, and for me it was adding insult to injury when I had to do it for a pitcher who wanted to throttle me.

     Another thing I didn't like about JV baseball was losing our best players to the varsity. Centerfielder Mike Gubitoso and pitcher Jim Budnick had just been called up, leaving us with just Heinzy and freshmen Richie Jeskie as starting pitchers. They both tended to long innings by running up the ball-strike count with fastballs thrown at a batter's head.

     Our JV field was a quirky place to play wedged behind playgrounds and the pool at Codrington Park. The infield had been filled with an orange clay that was rock hard when dry or a quagmire after rains. Ground balls came at you either fast and bouncy or slow and soggy. Outfielders had their own challenges with a huge sycamore looming over the right field foul line. The old tree sometimes caromed hit balls and it always impeded throws from the right corner. 

     The right field fence for the park pool formed a short porch for left-handed batters at about two-hundred-twenty feet. In center field there was a gap between the pool and a post-and-rail fence around the Kiddie-Corral. Balls hit past or over the center fielder could roll forever once they reached the blacktop of the main playground. Then there was the old iron bleacher on the left field foul line that restricted the third baseman's range for fielding foul balls. All of these quirks provided a home field advantage for those who also practiced on the field.



      "Marone!" hisses Heinzy assuming the stretch position and delivering a fast one high and tight. 

Thwack goes the bat as the hitter pops a major league fly to shallow left.

Vennie Malave at third base drifts over to the bleacher and stops to watch the ball go foul. Gordon Barna in left field starts charging and stops when he sees it heading beyond the chain link fence. I run over to that fence, fraternal advice never far from my mind. Throwing a hand on the top bar, I leap behind the bleacher and snag the ball as scantily-clad fans duck forward from the top row.

"Thanks Bates," exclaims sweat-drenched Heinzy as I hand him the ball. "One more out and I'll have my first win."

"Hey D'St, hey D'st, hey D'st, you da beast," I resume as he nails three inside fastballs for the strikeout.



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