| I.S.C. Graydon's Grumblings |
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I Loved That Old Park . . .
Isn't that the truth.
Nobody asked me. But I am going to say simply, "Yes."
There were no superstar contracts back then. Couldn't be. The best salaries were $12 a day. And they were the top scale labor people. No one thought about sharing profits.
These were people who would strike for better labor conditions. A buck an-hour rise. Strikes could last up to two-years. They end up with a 50-cent raise. And they thought they won the battle. These were prideful people.
They shared their love. Not only for their own families. But their fellow men, too. After all, it was just after World War II. And most fought along side each other in foxholes.
And yet, there was another conflict. . .that's what the powers in charge called -- The Korean War -- flaming out of control. And "Old Give 'Em Hell Harry" (President Harry S. Truman) was calling the shots.
And we had faith that our loves ones would all comeback.
Still, there was a common threads which bonded the town's people.
First, most were employed by Kennecott Copper. And people paid a huge sum or $17 a month for rent. And that was for the best housing. And the company would paint the houses at least once every two years. There was no cast system. Everyone was in the same class -- poor.
We didn't know any better. And much less, we didn't care. We had our riches.
We shared one more common thread --that old ballpark. We loved that old Garfield Park. It was our Disney World. Our Magic Kingdom.
It was located only 30-minutes from Salt Lake City. That didn't matter. We hardly drove to the big city, where everyone attempted to keep up with the Jones. In Garfield, we were all the Jones. We all got our older brothers' or sisters' hand-me-downs.
We didn't care. We weren't choosey. After all, there were no Ralph Laurens, or Calvin Kleins back then.
We wore what we got from the General Store or the best of J. C. Penny's line.
At the Garfield Park, you didn't mind that grass didn't grow at the park. There was a game, or two every night. Darkness never prevailed. It didn't matter if it was a fastpitch softball game or a baseball game.
We didn't care.
For us, it was our Yankee Stadium.
The first one to the park would drag an old chain-link fence around the park to smooth out the rough edges. Mowed the weeds there were many.
We didn't care.
It was the games which counted.
I played both fastpitch softball and baseball.
The glove I started playing with, was a little larger than my hand. It didn't have a pocket. It was flatter than a pancake. But it was my dad's (James), and I loved it.
It was a time when we left our gloves on the field between innings. Sometimes even your opponents used them.
We didn't care.
It was the games which counted.
Finally, when my game improved, my dad purchased a better glove. This one was major league. It was a Mickey Mantle autographed Rawlings glove. And it was special. I appreciated it.
I didn't leave it on the field between innings. It wasn't that I was selfish. But it was a Mickey Mantle autographed model. And don't forget my dad had bought it.
And I was the envy of our neighborhood. Let alone our team. I was living high on the hog. Life couldn't be better.
We were fortunate to have uniforms. And when we did, it was those loose fitting heavy wool jobbers. They weren't designed for comfort. When they got hot, they would gain five or six pounds.
They made us feel like major leaguers.
We didn't care.
It was the games which counted.
Still, it was a thrill just to put those reds and whites on (our team uniform colors).
There wasn't any hint of crime. We left the doors to our houses wide open. Everyone was at the Garfield Park. And if they weren't, neighbors knew everyone in town. If anyone unfamiliar walked to your house, the neighbors would know. They would scare them away.
The town was like one big happy family.
The older players always made an impact on me. With the exception, of course of Mickey Mantle, they were my heros. They taught me how to play the game.
That's what counted.
You couldn't live in Garfield without a nickname. . .Fishmouth, Buck, Buckwheat, Moose, Gumpy, Killer, etc. And they were the girls!
Just kiddin'. . .
Mine was Torch. Until this day, people call me that. People I grew up with, didn't know my real name. Today, people don't even know my name. It was part of my myth. I guess.
It was like what the Mafia called being "a made-man." I was a member. Life couldn't be better.
Time freezes those memories.
And I do care.
Life was simple.
If we weren't at the ballpark or swimming pool, we could be seen sitting on a curve, playing games like naming every car, which drove past.
It wasn't hard back then. There weren't any foreign cars. It was a union labor town. By not driving a foreign car, the life you saved could be your own.
Life was simple.
It was so simple that no one in Utah could name a better Little League team than the Garfield Bobcats. We played the entire summer. Our league -- The Magna-Hunter-Granger-and-Garfield Community Recreation Association -- played 50 games that year. We won the CRA Championship. Beat Granger to do it. We were 46-4.
Now days, leagues end the first of June. Families have to take their summer vacations. Summers at the Garfield Park, were our vacations.
But remember, before you could play the game, you had to name the
league we played in. That was your test. Some actually failed. But the
coach would always play them. He would make you study that for the next
game. And then, the next game. Finally, the summer would end. And you
didn't have to worry about the next game. It never came.
But you really wanted to win. Call it town pride. We felt we owed them. We
had attitude. A champion's swagger.
Times were tough.
If you ever did slide into a base, and got a strawberry on your backside.
You couldn't cry. Eighty percent of the people didn't care that you got
it. And the other 20 percent were sure as hell happy you got it.
That Garfield Park allowed us to dream.
Maybe, someday I'll be in Yankee Stadium. And my dad would be so proud. He
brought me that Mickey Mantle model. I worshipped it.
But most of all, I worshipped dad. He was my biggest hero.
Time does freeze those memories.
God, I loved that old park. . .
Editor's Note:
DAN PATTISON has been a sports writer and columnist for over 30 years with
The Deseret News, Salt Lake Tribune, Las Vegas Sun, The Sporting News,
Basketball Times & USA Today. He is currently enjoying his
association with men's major fastpitch and as an ISC Commissioner.