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I.S.C. Press Releases

Lock The Gate On The Way Out
By Bob Otto/Yucaipa, CA

It seemed so wrong I thought, as I gazed up at the sign declaring the ball field within as JOE RODGERS FIELD.

The sign's lettering and size are professional enough, but the color's all wrong.

Blue?

I mean, after all, this was once the home of the fabled Long Beach Nitehawks who so royally represented the City of Long Beach as ten-time International Softball Congress World Champions. And their colors were RED and BLACK not blue.

And where on the sign is the Nitehawk (logo) with its wings spread, and talons bared, swooping down on less fortunate fastpitch prey?

How could this be? Doesn't the city recognize the history behind this great team? Don't the city fathers realize that in fastpitch softball's mind's eye the colors red and black still resonate bright and powerful…? Even though the team ceased operation in 1988?

I mean, everything else - the grassy lawn in front of the stadium, the bronze plaque honoring Joe Rodgers as "The Father of Softball in Long Beach", and the high block wall with the thick, wooden gate that hides the ball diamond from view - all the while whetting fans and ball players appetites of what awaits them within.
This is all perfect.

A perfect venue for men's fastpitch softball at the major league level.

I walk up to the wooden gate. It's locked tight. Undaunted, I proceed around the block wall to the third base side searching for a way in. The chain link gate is unlocked, even though a sign above it instructed, "Lock The Gate On The Way Out". For my good fortune, someone had neglected his duty.

I enter. Several years have passed since my last visit, but Joe Rodgers Field still brings a sense of awe when stepping on the field. Except, now the cries of "Hawks" or "Go Hawks!" are ghostly voices of the past brought back to life only through imagination.

The sound of a bat cracking a ball, or a pitcher's rise ball exploding into a catcher's mitt are no more. On this day, only silence.

Gone is the all dirt ball field extending from the backstop to the outfield fence that made Joe Rodgers Field unique from all others.
Instead, lush green grass now replaces outfield dirt that once dusted the cleats and uniforms of some of fastpitch's greatest stars. The lush green a striking contrast to the smooth, brown surface of the infield.

"It's grass now," Red Meairs had said earlier in the day, with his voice rising in distain. As if to say hallowed tradition had met the disrespectful fate of modernization.

But none-the-less, Joe Rodgers Field is breathtakingly beautiful. Standing on home plate, my eyes slowly roamed around the outfield fence. Beyond the fence lies Recreation Golf Course. A golfer striking a golf ball is the only sound disturbing my concentration.

I head down the left field line. I walk alone. But as though on a Field of Dreams, I feel the presence of Nighthawks ghosts of the past. I reach the 245 sign in dead left field. Starring up at the old, black scoreboard above the fence, I envision a score.

Nitehawks 0, Lakewood Jets 1. But the Hawks have one last chance. It's the bottom of the seventh and Don Sears steps to the plate. A runner stands at second.

"Sears was one of the Nighthawks' greatest defensive players and clutch hitters," Meairs told me earlier.

"Whack!" Sears sends a drive deep over the scoreboard, abruptly ending another of the countless battles between these rivals in their years as the dominant teams in the Western Softball Congress.

Long forgotten fans cheer their approval, "Atta boy Donny!" And there is Meairs, greeting Sears with a Beech Nut splattered hug… "Way to go little meat," Red says.

I turn and click a few photos of the scoreboard. Wandering to dead centerfield, I turn and stare in at home plate. There's two outs. In front of me, Hice Stiles is poised like a deer ready for flight. On the mound is the big read head - Bob Todd.

Todd's rise ball is exploding, but a mistake sends a drive deep into the right center ally. Stiles is off before the crack of the bat, his graceful strides effortlessly cutting off a stand up double. As Stiles lopes toward the Hawks dugout, Todd greets him with a quiet, "thanks Hice."

I shoot a few frames from centerfield imagining the finished photo filled with screaming Hawks fans.

Slowly I walk in toward second base. It's between innings (1955) and the ball is snapping around the infield: Stan White to Cleo Goyette to Jimmy Jones to Clint Herron, to Larry Silvas. And back to White with a final toss to big Jack Randall on the mound.

In the outfield Bill Hull, Bob Bullock and Paul "Lucky" Humiston nervously shuffle their feet. Bottom of the seventh, 1-0, and nothing can get between them.
"Go get 'em Jack!" screams Humiston, the twitchiest of the trio. Meanwhile, Leroy Zimmerman starts to warm up, just in case.

I move in and stand on the lip behind second base where green grass meets dusty, brown infield. Listening closely, Nighthawks ghostly chatter surrounds me. Decades of players intermingle and jostle each other for playing time at their respective positions.

"We need this out Don (Sarno), go get 'em big guy."

"Come on Darrel (Kamm), get us started, we need you on!"

"Throw him out, Milt (Stark), he's running!"

"Leroy (Zimmerman), we gotta have this guy," bellows Joe Rodgers as he paces nervously inside the dugout.

Leaving the ball diamond I retreat to the worn wooden bench inside the dugout on the first base side. I feel players moving about nervously, lighting a cigarette, spitting seeds and tobacco, smearing pine tar on their bats and giving them small flicks, eager for their turn at the plate.

Supreme confidence reigns. They're the Nitehawks. They've all been in this position hundreds of times. Winning 10 world tourney titles has hardened them. Someone will ignite the inning; someone will sacrifice him to second, and someone will bring screaming Hawks fans to their feet with a game-winning hit.

Leaving the dugout after the Hawks rushed to mob the game's hero, I head toward Connie Meairs' concession stand. The smell of tamales engulfs my nostrils. Players and fans crowd each other as they wait for their orders. Some lean against the concession stand rehashing the game, or talk of future games and tournaments.

Connie, working in back, has seen little of the game, instead she doggedly turns hot dogs and cooks the fan's favorite: Her tamales. A tradition passed on by the late Joe Rodgers that Connie refuses to bury. She knows only too well that every nickel, every dollar squeezed from concession sales will help finance Red's team for another year.

Connie works on, always with a smile, always with a warm greeting. Darrel Kamm, her favorite Nitehawk, comes up to retrieve his children who Connie watches while Darrell plays. "Thanks for watching the kids," he says. "Always happy to," says Connie. "They're so well behaved."

Meanwhile, Red is on the ball diamond raking and smoothing the pitchers circle, preparing for the next game. He moves about slightly bent over, joints and muscles arguing with him over how tired and worn they are. Yet, he rakes on.

I climb the stands behind home plate. The noisy silver metal rudely breaks the silence. The bleached weatherworn wooden scorers table still remains at the top.
Oddly out of place with the gleaming seats below it. The table runs the full length of the bleachers.

How many games have been scored here, I wonder. Imagine the joy these scorers felt despite working tirelessly from early morning until dark of night? How many scorebooks have been filled? How many no-hitters, perfect games, strike out contests, and big hits have been recorded for the ages?

I can here shouts of: "Hey, score keep, what inning we in? What's the score? Who's due up next inning? How many strikeouts Teske (Roger) got?"

Walking back toward my unlocked entrance, I look left past the third base dugout toward the ball players warm up area. Red makes a quick circle with his arm, ordering Bob Wills to speed up his warm up pitches.

I imagine fans straining to see who's warming up for the next game. Fans' buzz fills the air. "I think Herlihy's warming up. If he throws, it's gonna be a tough game," says one knowledgeable fan. "We got to him pretty good in Lancaster though," counters another.

"Who's throwing for the Nitehawks?" asks a newcomer to the sport. "Todd, who else?" snorts a long-time Hawks' fan in a belittling tone of voice. "We gotta have this game, can't save Bob now."

With my journey through Joe Rodgers Field finished, I start to leave, but turn back for one final look. What a fantastic arena for men's fastpitch softball, I think. What tradition. What history. What a loss.

As I walk through the unlocked gate I realize that the sign posted above sadly but appropriately defines an end to an era. A bygone era in men's fastpitch softball never to be repeated again.

"Lock The Gate On The Way Out."