Up The Lake- Sports Part 1

A Sporting Chance

Or

Fields of Getting Creamed

 

 
There is a near infinite amount of things about Up the Lake that made it one of, scratch that-  that made it THE best part of our lives.  One I’ve mentioned (But can't find any links for at the moment as this has been a stressful year) is having a shared background with people we’d normally wouldn't have had the opportunity to hang around with. Those people frequently introduced us to and educated us about multiple items we’d usually steer well clear of…whether we wanted to or not in some cases. (Like me providing constant novelty record lessons.)  A prime example of this is my detailed knowledge of fishing terminology, tactics and equipment, despite being utterly incapable of sitting still in a boat long enough to partake in that activity.
 
One of the many benefits I got out of these interactive training sessions was knowledge of the rules and mechanics involved with participating in sports. This is something I would have had zero connection to in my geeky life.  Most of my Up the Lake side of the family were the types who would instantly generate pick-up games of whatever sport was possible as soon as anything remotely resembling the amount of people needed were available.
 
Note- This had no effect on my skill levels, I remained at humorously awful levels for everything sport related. However, at least I knew what most of them were supposed to look like.  This comes in handy with my family when we eat in restaurants that show sporting events on screens covering every wall. Since those are the only time my wife and daughter are exposed to those activities, my past experience allows me to answer questions, or at least make up intelligent sounding answers, while we wait for our order.
 
Most of the major sports were covered in some form or another as we spent each summer in the great outdoors.  However, some were far more prevalent due to the wilderness environs atop the mountain we were residing in for two months out of the year.
 
Clearly, summer weather and dirt roads are not conducive to any form of hockey.  My knowledge of that sport came from tracking Nick’s wardrobe each year as the New York Islanders cemented their dynasty as four time Stanley Cup Champions.  Each summer in the early Eighties, Nick would arrive in July with a new shirt proclaiming the steadily growing number of trophies using various other sports references.  (e.g. “Grand Slam” and "Hat Trick" which come from wrestling and street juggling I believe)  I was most impressed by his 1984 shirt, displaying there was enough demand to prove the Islander fan base was both loyal and appreciative.  The team didn’t win that year, but a special shirt was made showing the Stanley Cups of the previous four years and a big, “Thank you!” That's a lot of sweetness for a pastime associated with "blood on the ice."
 
Nick was also my key connection for basketball Up the Lake.  There was a net and makeshift backboard across the road from his cabin.  It hung at occasionally shifting angles on a tree over his dad’s parking space. Whenever George’s latest in a series of giant Cadillacs wasn’t in that space (meaning there wasn’t much time for practice on weekends), Nick would work on the aim that led to his and his father’s inherent confidence in it on the Duchess County Fairground Midway.   

Playing a normal game never happened because dribbling was nigh impossible.  Any time the ball would bounce off the uneven surface of the road or parking space (which were indistinguishable from each other on the best of days) the soon to be lonely basketball would rocket off in random direction.  At its calmest careening, it looked to be controlled only by chaos theory.  However, no matter which direction it started going, it would eventually ricochet, hop and roll into the swamp near the road valley known as the "Outhouse Triangle." I’m convinced there was a colony of the orange spheres living below the surface down there having a great time, free from their former masters.
 

There were brief brushes with other sports.  Occasionally, radios would be turned to the big horse race in the summer.  I was about to indicate it was the Kentucky Derby…which runs at the beginning of May, meaning that clearly couldn’t have been the one. Whatever it was, we’ll just say it got listened to, cheered at, and skedaddle back to participatory sports before I reveal any further ignorance.
 
As most of the Up the Lake clan were very traditional about sports, the main two activities I’d find myself roped into, against my better judgement, were baseball and football.
 
Baseball was always the wiffle variety. Everyone had several bats, which served as lightsabers, rug beaters and multiple other devices when not employed in the sport.  Games would begin when someone got into town to pick up a set of wiffle balls.  The rules were passed down to our generation, as were most things, by Joe JOE, joe and NICK.
 
Even on the rare occasions we had enough people to run bases, we never did, using the "Imaginary man on Second" method.  This was partially due to maintaining a consistency of “Up the Lake” rules no matter who was playing.  It was also, more likely, due to the strange shape of the playing field and having no idea where the bases could go that would make any logical or geometric sense. 
 
In most cases, the foul lines were parallel, and the exact delineation between infield and outfield was speculative at best.  The games were more like playing atop one of those old-fashioned mechanical baseball games that looked like pinball machines and had success based on the hole the hit ball fell into, than on a true diamond.  

The rules for playing in The First Field were straightforward:
 
If the ball didn’t make it to the road when hit it was an out. 

If it went into the poison ivy behind you it was a "foul ball" (for several reasons)
If it went across the road after touching the ground it was a single.
If it went over the road in the air, it was a double.
If the ball left the Field and went down to the "Snake Pit," it was a home run…
Unless, of course, it flew into the big pine tree on the right side of the border to the “Pit.”
This was known as the “Triple Tree,” due to obvious implications of the name.
 
Balls that reached the “Snake Pit”  were often lost, due more to overgrowth than obvious implications of that particular name.  When all the wiffle balls that had been purchased on the foray off the mountain became irretrievable, the game ended. 
 
The play would last quite a while, due to the complete inability of most of us to hit the ball during the early innings. Joe (Nick’s Brother for those not wishing to check the “Joe Guide” post linked to above at the list of names) could throw sentient curve balls from hell. Others his age emulated his style, and he taught his brother what he could.  However, no one equaled the demonic possession level of control he had over those wiffle balls
 
I’m convinced several of his pitches orbited my head at least three times before landing smack in the middle of the ribbon backed lawn chair that defined the strike zone. Hits would happen sporadically in the early game, and due to the principal of momentum would expand exponentially as the game progressed. 
 
Older guys insisted on taping the bat, a questionable practice at best with wood or aluminum gear, but a quantum leap in lethality for plastic.  The bat was wrapped in electric tape to give the flimsy polyethylene more weight and power, imparting a much stronger swing.
 
The problem with this practice is that the poor defenseless wiffle ball, while following complex geometries due to Joe's throwing ability, received no such boost in strength.  A random hit would inevitably create a large fault line along the wiffle ball, connecting one or more of its designed in holes together.  This damage would be quickly repaired with the same electrical tape. 
 
The more tape holding the rapidly deteriorating ball together, the less ability it had to follow Joe’s will to change directions like an inebriated dragonfly midflight, and the more likely for subsequent damaging blows by the augmented bat.
 
Eventually a solid wad of tape would be lofted gently at the lawn chair strike zone, in spite of any effort from Joe to exert his magic on it.  This led to that wad of tape being smacked deep into the Snake Pit, occasionally completely over the triple tree, often never to be seen again, unless it pulled left and hit JOE's cabin down the hill.
 
Anabelle got to play once when Rich came up with his family and initiated a game. In either a rare assemblage of enough players, or more likely a breakdown in communications after many years without play, they actually ran bases that day.  Anabelle had the “best time playing an organized sport in my life.”  The reason for this was the same reason I enjoyed sporting up there.  “I didn’t care about playing, and everyone else let me not care about playing.”  She had one hit where she strolled easily to first base to allow Morgan (then about age two) to finally tag someone out and feel like he was contributing.  

Up the Lake sports, it’s all about enjoyment.

Click to Continue on to football (Next week when it posts)

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