The Dugout

C. S. "Chic" Gillan
Montana c. 1935

My dad was euphoric when the Giants moved from New York to San Francisco in 1958.  Major league baseball in California!  He could hardly contain himself.  His grand passion – aside from his family – was baseball:  he said it taught you everything you needed to know about life.

Dad played sandlot and high school ball in Hollywood, and returned to Montana, his home state, to play minor league baseball in the early 30s.  He eventually wound up in Maryland where we lived when he came home from the war.  He soon began pitching for the local team.  Every year when spring training begins and opening day approaches, I remember those summers in Maryland, watching from the dugout while my dad played ball. 

It wasn’t much as dugouts go; its white paint, chipped and peeling, revealed splintery wood underneath.  Inside, the wooden bench was worn smooth and shiny, the slatted wooden floor pockmarked by countless cleats.  I loved the pungent smell of sweaty wool uniforms; the oily, leathery smell of the gloves; the clatter the spikes made on the dugout floor; the easy banter among the players.  I got to work in the dugout because my dad was the pitcher.

It was my job to fill up the tin pail on the dugout steps.  Between innings I’d drag the cracked and leaky hose around the corner of the dugout and stick the end down to the bottom of the pail, watching the bubbling water until it sloshed over the sides.  At the visitors’ third out, the ballplayers would trot in from the field, laughing and chattering, clapping my dad on the back.  They’d take a few gulps of water from the ladle, pour the rest over their heads, run their fingers through their wet hair and put their caps back on, one hand adjusting the back, the other peaking the bill with a few tiny motions, jerking the cap back and forth just a fraction of an inch either way.

When our team went back into the field, I’d lean against the wire fence in front of the dugout, arms draped across the wooden railing, chin resting on crossed hands, watching my dad pitch.  He’d tweak his cap, then lean forward, intent, toeing the mound, his eyes squinting as he watched the catcher’s signals.  He’d shake off two or three, then nod and straighten.  He’d glance over his right shoulder at Joe, the one-eyed shortstop my dad always said would have made the majors if he hadn’t lost an eye in the war.  Joe would drop back to the outfield grass, knees and back slightly bent, his right hand pounding the pocket of his glove as he kept up a steady stream of chatter – “humm baby, humm baby, come baby, come on baby, no batter up there, no batter” – his words echoed by the other infielders.  Then the pitch.

I cheered along with his teammates when my dad struck out a batter or ended a no-hit inning, but the subtleties of the pitching game escaped me.  I liked the excitement of the big hit, the long ball, sharing the team’s exhilaration when a runner crossed home plate and the dugout emptied as the team congratulated the scorer. I never admitted it to my dad, but secretly I was glad when the Good Humor man’s truck showed up while our team was in the field so I could run for an ice cream without fear of missing a big hit.  Those tinkling bells were the only thing that could coax me from the dugout.

I haven’t been in a dugout since those summers of 1946 and 1947; we moved to California and my dad no longer played small-town baseball.  I lost my taste for Good Humor bars and developed instead a taste for the fresh roasted peanuts from Seals’ Stadium, but my dad never lost his passion for baseball.  We spent a lot of time in the sun at Seals’ Stadium, my dad and me, and in the fog and wind at Candlestick, cheering first the San Francisco Seals and then the Giants.  We’d get to the ballpark early to watch the groundskeepers sweep the infield and the pitchers warm up in the bullpen.  My dad, intent, analyzed the pitching strategies; I cheered the home runs.  It took me a long time to learn what my dad knew all along: the subtle strategies of pitching win more games than hitting a long ball, in baseball as in life.