I loved traveling with my dad when he went on basketball and baseball scouting trips in the 1950s and 1960s.
For example, my brother Tom and I accompanied him to the Buffalo Memorial Auditorium to watch the Queen City Invitational Basketball Tournament, an annual, two-night, four-team event featuring host Canisius College and three other teams.
After watching NBA games on our new black-and-white TV and learning how to score shots and the statistics for rebounds and assists, we sat in the cheap seats at the Australian Football Club and dutifully marked up the stat sheet.
During that time, my dad would diagram and analyze plays and note player tendencies (can’t drive left, only has a jump shot, poor passing) for scouting reports.
Popcorn, peanuts and soft drinks were given out as treats at halftime and between games.
On the way home, we would always stop at Curt’s Stop Inn near the Ford Stamping Plant in Woodlawn for a delicious cheeseburger and shake as a reward for our work. We always got a take-out cheeseburger for my mother.
Other times, I traveled alone with my dad as he scouted promising baseball players in western New York, northwestern Pennsylvania, and parts of Ohio.
On one of these adventures we entered a $1 raffle draw, and the locals were surprised and probably pretty pissed when a young stranger from Dunkirk won the top prize and walked away with a new baseball bat. Nice perk.
On another trip, I experienced the strangest thing I’ve ever seen at a baseball park.
We were in a small minor league stadium — I don’t remember which one — with a metal roof. I remember a foul ball flying over the stands behind home plate and landing with a loud thud, then hearing the ball slowly roll down the sloping roof and being stopped on the ground by an invisible barrier.
Minor league teams operated on a shoestring budget, baseballs weren’t cheap, and foul balls were routinely chased by fast young players hired by team management.
I had a good seat that day and was enjoying a great view of the field when a wild pitch happened.
The ball appeared to get caught on the edge of home plate, then went trampoline-like over the batter, catcher and umpire.
But the ball didn’t stop there. Amazingly, with a one in a billion chance, it bounced off the screen, about 30 feet above the screen, all the way to the roof. A baseball never bounces that high.
Naturally, the crowd “Ohhh.” and “Ah.” Then there was laughter and, at the end, well-deserved applause. We all thought we had witnessed a historic wild pitch.
By the way, these are guidelines from the Associated Press Stylebook. “a” And it’s not ” “ It predates history. I think it’s a force of habit.
We’ve derailed again, and it could get a lot worse. “Weaving” For my base of older, couch-bound former athletes, coaches and officials. And maybe, just maybe, their wives.
But back to the strange bounce, here comes the next pitch.
Yes, you’re right. It was deja vu all over again.
This time, when the errant throw once again defied gravity, chance and all laws of physics and landed on the roof, the crowd reacted very differently.
There was a stunned silence, then a few gasps. “oh my god.”
I vividly remember the ball slowly rolling down the roof and then a deafening silence.
Managers from both teams came out to inspect the area around home plate but found nothing and the game continued without further incident.
My dad and I couldn’t wait to get home and report this huge weirdness.
“I just want to be clear.” They said. “Two balls in a row that bounced 30 feet into the air and landed on the roof of the stadium? Right!”
The listeners were pretty skeptical because they hadn’t actually seen it.
Maybe you have too. I get it. It was weird.
——
Bill Hammond is a former sports editor of the Evening Observer.
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