Uncle Fred played on a Dodgers farm team after World War II
A COLUMN by Steve Sprague, pictured on the left is Fred Sprague
Baseball was everything to me growing up in Bath. By late high school, life’s other distractions grabbed my attention. But as Monday’s 18-inning World Series game kept me captivated until 3 a.m., I began to see how the game might have shaped my entire life.
It was 1955. The hapless Brooklyn Dodgers beat the mighty Yankees after losing to them five times before, in 1941, ’47, ’49. ’52 and ’53. I was elated, probably my first real excitement over a national sporting event. It felt personal.
My dad’s younger brother, Fred, played a couple years with the Dodgers’ farm system after the war. He and Dad both grew up on what is now the Bully Hill Winery site and both played but it was Fred who actually got into the major league system. I was the envy of all my fellow Little League players and, as the years passed, Fred was a common sight at games.
Sadly, we lost Fred in an air crash in 1978 but the spirit of the Dodgers stayed with me. The 1955 high was, of course, dashed the next year when they again lost to the Yankees and then moved to Los Angeles for the 1958 season. Not long after high school I also drifted away from baseball to face life’s challenges.
What didn’t leave my life was the urge to root for the underdog and the very strong belief that playing by the rules was the only way to keep things fair. Baseball did that to me.
I’ve mentioned on these pages in columns past the jobs and “careers” that kept me employed until my retirement in 2022. As I look back on them now, I can see countless large and small ways those baseball days shaped my focus. And very much define who I am now.
Until that 1955 World series, the Dodgers were considered incapable of greatness. Fresh from high school, as a reporter in Vietnam for the Air Force with a little radio experience, I sought out the mechanics and cooks for interviews that played on their hometown radio stations. Of course, the fighter pilots and heroes were interviewed, too, but even the grounds crew deserved credit for playing a part in a win.
After that, I pursued real journalism back home. Again, I found that I most enjoyed the stories that laid bare the bad characters who took advantage of those with less stature or power. I think I privately thought of them as Yankees; always using the name and an endless bag of money to rule the roost. Whether it was politics or business, if you weren’t playing by the rules, I wanted everyone to know that.
When I was drafted into service on Capitol Hill for a new congressman, I promised my colleagues at the newspaper I would never lie to them. I never did but the opportunities and the potential rewards to do so were significant. I confess if a reporter wasn’t diligent, a “plausible” answer could be inserted in place of a “brutally truthful” one.
Sometimes it felt like we were using the classic hidden ball trick. Man on first; infield gathers at the mound for a pep talk and the first baseman goes back with the ball hidden in his glove to tag out the runner before the next pitch.
The jobs on the Hill, however, gave me the chance to see how desperately many of the elected members wanted to stay in that place. While the congressman always gets the glory of announcing local grants or contracts, few of them actually play a part in securing those. Every agency is directed to channel announcements through the Hill.
I left Capitol Hill after more than 12 years to serve with an association of bus companies. We had 1,000 member companies ranging from Greyhound to mom-and-pop operations. After a dozen years with the high and arrogant, I found amazing satisfaction working with good people doing their best to make a living in an under-appreciated business.
Again, it was the workman Dodgers’ right to deserved and earned recognition.
My last “career,” with TSA, again brought opportunities. Helping bus and truck companies or bridge operators’ close security vulnerabilities that could leave them open to terrorism as the airlines were at 9/11 felt a little like being a bullpen coach. A good slider from a no-name reliever could save the game.
All this sounds very high-minded and boastfully self-wonderful, I know. It’s not intended to be that. I’ve struck out many times. I’ve been fired from some great jobs and messed things up pretty consistently in all those careers. I’ll never be either rich or famous. I’m cool with that.
But…like the Dodgers of 1955…I never stopped trying to make things better by playing by the rules. I also never stopped wanting to cause problems for those who can’t stick to the rules. You can guess today’s villain but if not, you can read my frustration into my other contributions to The Sun.
There are still days when I wish I could be 9 again and feel the sting of the bat with that first hit in the cold days of spring. The ball was an overused relic wrapped in my dad’s black electrical tape.
But the smiles were real and the future hopeful. Still are.
Steve Sprague is Bath NY resident after surviving a career in Washington DC. He writes on a variety of subjects for the Sun and is always pleased to hear from readers, sgsprague@gmail.com
ICYMI, Sprague’s column on the federal shutdown
