The Ball Player

Bill Whittington

Description

This book is about my father and his peers who grew up poor in rural North Carolina from the early to the late 1900s. The backdrop of these stories is the Carolina Textile Baseball League where James M. Whittington, Sr played from 1926 to 1954 and then further umpired, coached, and mentored many individual ball-players for another 40 years. He became a local legend in North and South Carolina, specifically the Piedmont Region. James Whittington circumstances molded him and his friends as rough men. He lived his life as a tough man but eventually found God and salvation later in life.

Sujets

• Sport
• Baseball
• Sports collectifs
• Autour du sport
• Histoire du sport
• Sports
• Béisbol
• Armada de los Estados Unidos
• Carolina del Norte
• Segunda Guerra Mundial
• Great Depression
• World War II
• Recreation
• North Carolina
• United States Navy
• Caroline du Nord
• Seconde Guerre mondiale

Informations

• Publié par: Trafford Publishing
• Date de parution: 28 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781698712741
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE BALL PLAYER
 
 
 
 
 
BILL WHITTINGTON
 
 
 
© Copyright 2022 Bill Whittington. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6987-1276-5 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1275-8 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1274-1 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022916051
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Trafford rev. 08/26/2022
www.trafford.com North America & international toll-free: 844-688-6899 (USA & Canada) fax: [phone]
Contents
Special Thanks
Introduction
Chapter 1 Franklin Mill Hill’s New Arrival
Chapter 2 Signs of the Times
Chapter 3 A Few Early Stories
Chapter 4 The Mill Hill Boys
Chapter 5 A Meager Formal Education
Chapter 6 Visits to Uncle Cliff and Aunt Laurie’s
Chapter 7 Working at the Franklin
Chapter 8 Running Slubbers and Playing Baseball
Chapter 9 The Crash
Chapter 10 Jim Becomes Shad Rack
Chapter 11 Radio on the Hill
Chapter 12 Shad Meets Ethel Marie
Chapter 13 When the Men Played Fast-Pitch
Chapter 14 The Breakup
Chapter 15 Hitler’s Move for World Power
Chapter 16 Shad Meets Ted Williams
Chapter 17 The War Klaxon Sounds
Chapter 18 From the Mountains to the Sea
Chapter 19 Jane Alice Peters and the Liberty Ship
Chapter 20 Welcome Home
Chapter 21 Morganton – Mount Pleasant and Mae Belle
Chapter 22 A Fresh Start in Rowan County
Chapter 23 Roberta and the Big Three
Chapter 24 The Weekend Warrior
Chapter 25 And Along Came Eva
Chapter 26 Uncle Clarence
Chapter 27 Slingshots, Horseshoes, and Playing Peggy
Chapter 28 Baseball Mentorship
Chapter 29 Carolina Seen from Afar
Chapter 30 A Tragic Event
Chapter 31 Mae Bell’s Final Bout
Chapter 32 A Downhill Slide
Epilogue
About the Author
About the People
References
Special Thanks
I would like to extend an acknowledgment and special thanks to those individuals who helped make this book a reality: Billy Ford, Tom Nunley, Frank Capra, Vernon Harold Ford, Harold Furr, James Howard Hooks Jr., Richard Lapish, Richard Lefler, Bryant Parnell Jr., Jerry Pierce, Rodney Quesenberry, Willard Mauney Sr., Luke Mauney, Richard Mauney, Marvin Mauney, Harold Mauney, Rick McClamrock, Hank Utley, Eva Whittington-Self, James Manuel Whittington Sr., Mae Belle Whittington, Ted Whittington, and Gene Kermit Verble Sr.
If I have omitted anyone that added credit to this book, I humbly apologize. Unfortunately, most of those mentioned in this section are no longer with us.
If you would like to know more about these people, I have included a section at the end called About the People.
Introduction
W hen my homesickness could no longer be diminished, I knew it was time to take another journey home. The moment I left work and rolled out on the road, hundreds of fond memories and independent thoughts started to take effect. I felt like a wild animal that had been released from captivity. My thoughts of home and of my boyhood seemed like ancient history. It was only then I realized it had been fifteen years since I had been home.
As the trip progressed, I started visualizing the old neighborhood and that five-room house on Linden Avenue where I grew up. After spending eighteen years there and graduating from high school in 1972, I joined the military and served for twenty-seven years.
During those years of service, I traveled all over the United States and spent time in several foreign countries. The world that I had left behind seemed smaller than a postage stamp, yet you would be surprised how many memories I rediscovered within that small postage stamp.
I had visited home many times before while in service, and like those previous visits, a plethora of thoughts and memories would spring forth. However, when I left work that February evening, there were so many memories that began to unfold, it was almost impossible to keep up with the influx of those separate slices of life that I could recall.
I planned to reassemble those detached pieces of that large jigsaw puzzle and put them in their proper place. I wanted to find my old self and see how many things were the way they used to be.
When familiar landmarks came into view along the way, they miraculously unlocked memory patterns that had been previously closed. Those thoughts and associated emotions returned as vividly as if I had experienced them only the day before. Yet had I not seen that familiar building, crossed over that old bridge, or gazed down into the river, there is no telling how long those memories would have remained suppressed.
The closer I got to home, the farther back in time those memories took me because I had been gone so long, it was difficult to determine which memories were real or just imagined, and I began to question if some of those events actually happened.
Unfortunately, I heard they had torn down the Red Pig restaurant, but the most disturbing news was they had demolished our old elementary school since I had been away. I thought, w ho did they think they were? Who gave them permission to tear down Hartsell School? I never would have given them permission to do such a thing.
Many of my classmates had the opportunity to gather bricks or bits and pieces of memorabilia while the school was being torn down. However, I knew it would be difficult for me to see an empty piece of land where my school used to stand. My classmates had time to adapt to the change, whereas I had not.
The sun was beginning to rise when I crossed the Carolina line, and excitement was building like the crescendo of a large orchestra. I was in overdrive, and there wouldn’t have been any way I could have slept, regardless how tired I was. There were so many things that I had to see and do in such a short time. I planned to visit my old neighborhood, drive over to see Howard Hooks, but sadly, I wanted to pay my respects to a childhood friend, Billy Edwards, who was resting in the Oakwood Cemetery.
On the way to Howard’s, I drove past my old house on Linden Avenue. I stopped my truck but didn’t get out. It was at this moment I remembered a powerful dream I had during my military days, while I was stationed overseas. It was a futuristic-type dream, and in that dream, I happened to be looking at my house from across the street, just like I was now from inside the truck.
In the dream, my home was abandoned, and I could see cobwebs draped across the dusty furniture through the windows. For some reason, I could not go inside because I realized that my parents had passed away. The same was true when I was staring at the house during this trip, even though there weren’t any cobwebs, but like in that dream, I could not go inside because someone else was living in our old home. That dream had just become a living reality; it struck a chord deep in my soul, and it was painful for me to stay there any longer.
This trip meant a lot; I didn’t want to miss anything, knowing that this would probably be the last time I would visit my birthplace. I drove through historic Concord and proceeded toward Richfield along Highway 49, where Howard currently resided. While driving north on Highway 49, the Mount Pleasant High School seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if I had totally forgotten that it was ever there. This site could not be passed up; so I pulled over, got out of the truck, and walked out onto the baseball field.
Baseball was a very large piece of that childhood puzzle, and after I walked out on that field, I knew I was finally at home, as if I had never left. Memories started flowing in at high speed; Mount Pleasant was one of our high school opponent teams within the Rocky River Conference.
Once again, I was whisked to another time. I remembered that wonderful sound a bat makes when a baseball was hit well, followed by a loud pop when the ball was caught deep in the pocket of the glove or a mitt. I could almost hear chatter emanating from each bench, the spectators’ shouts, whistles, and catcalls coming from the fans in the bleachers along the bank while the crowd rooted for their favorites.
As I stood on the mound, I turned and imagined I saw the dust fly up after Don L. Means slid into second. While standing in the batter’s box, I pictured Jim Ritchie, the Mount Pleasant pitcher, toeing the rubber on the mound while taking his signal from the catcher.
I cannot recall how long I was out there, but those memories eventually waned, which left me stranded on that Mount Pleasant Baseball Field all alone. Those memories were wonderful; I regret they faded. Had those ballplayers stayed around a little longer, we might have been able to finish the game. Then I realized that this particular game had already been played, and the score had been decided thirty-eight years earlier.
Over time, I had lost track with my teammates and had no idea where they were now or how many were still alive. While standing on that deserted baseball field, I experienced sad feelings, similar to those felt by an old actor while standing on an empty stage where he used to perform, or what a sailor might experience wh