Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime

“Are you crying? Are you crying? Are you crying?” Tom Hanks’ character, Coach Jimmy Dugan, asked Evelyn Gardner in the movie A League of Their Own. Gardner, played by Bitty Schram, was the right fielder for the Rockfield Peaches.

“There's no crying! There’s no crying in baseball!” he continued. Coach Dugan was a former major league baseball player. As coach of the Peaches, he was learning the nuances of coaching an all women’s team in the All American Girls Professional Baseball League. The league formed during World War II, when the military drained major league teams of their players.

Emily was there. She saw Tom Hanks say that line in A League of Their Own. All the Rockford Peaches’ home games were filmed in Evansville, at Bosse Field, the third oldest professional baseball stadium in the country behind Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. Emily was in the stands as an extra the day that scene was shot.

Emily was only the second girl to ever play in our league. She was placed on my team because I had coached the only other girl. Since I “had done a good job with her,” they thought Emily would do well on my team, too. League officials explained to me that the fall season, or “fall ball,” was much more laid back and instructional rather than competitive, so it wouldn’t matter as much. That made me suspicious.

Emily kept her hair short. As an 11-year-old, when she pulled her hat down, you couldn’t tell that she was a girl. She loved the game…she loved everything about baseball. She seemed to know everything about every major league team and player, and she loved to share it. I learned a lot from Emily.

Emily was tough. During one practice, she was playing right field and I hit a short line drive to her. Holding none of the fear typical of so many Little League players, she charged the ball as hard as she could. She was in perfect position, but the ball landed right on the lip of the outfield, where the dirt meets the grass, and bounced up and hit her right in the face. It made one of those sounds that cause me to search for mom or dad, hoping they’ll take care of it so I didn’t have to see anymore.

When I got to Emily she was lying on the ground with her hand over her eye. As much as she probably wanted to, she was not crying – absolutely not crying – because there’s no crying in baseball. I moved her hand and saw that the ball had hit the lower edge of her left eye socket. There was already a mouse as big as a golf ball.

Basic baseball first aid consists of rubbing dirt on the wound, walking it off, or otherwise “shaking it off” and “being tough.” But this was serious…this called for ice. She sat in the dugout the rest of that practice – not in the stands with her mother because she might miss something – with a bag of ice on her face. When practice was over, the mouse had hardly gone down at all. The outline of the seams from the ball was very visible. Emily thought that was pretty cool.

Emily had a black eye for the rest of the season. I wondered if she was going home and hitting herself with the ball just to make sure it didn’t go away. She spent the next couple games with me in the dugout, telling me about the Major League Baseball playoff situation. Emily and I became buddies.

Between innings one game, I was walking back to the dugout and Emily was walking slightly behind me, just off to the side. I looked ahead and noticed her mother had a camera pointed in our direction. I didn’t acknowledge either of them, but slowed down just enough to make sure they got a good picture. To me, that was pretty cool.

Years later, I read an article in the sports section about Emily. She was a senior in high school and had won some athletic honor. There she was, my buddy Emily, with her picture in the sports section. That black eye had finally faded. I wonder if she remembers me, that black eye, or sneaking that picture. I wonder if I can get a copy?

Even the parents from the other team stood up and cheered for Tara…especially the mothers. Tara was the only girl in the league that year, and possibly the first ever in this league. We were playing in the season tournament and this was probably her last game.

When she came to bat for the first time that game, she had to lift her hair up so the scorekeeper could see the number on the back of her jersey. One game, an opposing coach complained about her dangling earrings, so the ump made her take them off – for “safety reasons.” She was 12, wearing makeup and doing other girl stuff.

It was cool to see all the fans show their appreciation for her accomplishment. Just making it through three years of hearing players on the other team say, “She’s a girl, she can’t hit” was a major feat. But the reason they stood up and cheered was because Tara had just hit a two-run homer. Nice to see such a young lady actually hit a home run against the big boys, they thought. It was especially nice for us, since it tied the game.

Two innings later, Tara hit another line drive to the right-field fence for a double that tied the game again. This time, only our side was cheering.

The final inning was a familiar scene. We were down by two runs and Tara came to bat with two runners on base. As the ball soared over the right field fence, those same fans who were so happy for her just a few minutes ago looked like they’d been hustled by a pool shark. Strange. As she rounded third, we slapped hands. Her hair was flying and earrings dangling, her grin was as wide as it could be. Yeah, she’s a girl. But this girl can hit.

It turned out to be Tara’s last weekend of baseball. She didn’t make the all-star team and they wouldn’t let her play hard ball with the guys in Pony League. She never played again.

That was okay with her…she had other girl stuff to do.