Columns

By David Freeze

    I grew up idolizing my hero, New York Yankees baseball star, Mickey Mantle. Living on a small rural dairy farm, I really had to work to find someone to play ball with. My brother and sister didn’t care for sports much and still don’t. I couldn’t get enough of football or basketball, but baseball had that special appeal. At that time, I think baseball was truly America’s game. To me, it still is.

     Baseball on TV was rare then but sometimes I could get a game on the radio while sitting on the front porch swing during nice summer nights. We didn’t have air conditioning at home, so the cool night air was often a relief from a warm house. Just me and my small radio, searching for any game but especially grateful on the nights that the proper atmosphere allowed reception of a station carrying Yankees baseball.

     I had a cousin who often visited who loved the game as much as me. We could sometimes get my brother to play baseball games with us. I can never remember more than the three of us at home playing.

     Most fun of all was little league baseball that we played in Landis. I played on the Lions and my brother, along with our nearest neighbor, played on the Firemen. Our parents often shared the rides for the three of us to practices and games. There were only four teams in our league and we played twice a week.

     I remember my first time at the old Landis ballpark, originally used for semi-pro and high school baseball. The covered wooden stands and the field itself both seemed huge, especially to a small 11 year old boy. We had a team shirt, which I still have, and a ball cap. That shirt lasted a long time. Those games were more than 50 years ago.

      Another thing that lasted a long time were the baseballs. I remember how special we felt to ever see a new baseball. The pictures I have seen of early 1900’s major league players never included a new white baseball. All our practices were done with old balls, some of them heavy from getting wet previously. Those were also the days of the good little league teams only having three or four wooden bats. Yes, wooden bats just like the major league players used. Old balls and well-worn bats simply were baseball back then.

       Most games began with a new ball and a good used one as backup. We just needed enough balls as a team to warm up with. Should one of the game balls get lost, the home team had to put in play one of their best warmup balls. Someone was always sent to look for a lost game ball on the very big field at Landis. And they kept looking until the ball was found.

      My point here is that game balls were often used for a long time and could on occasion begin to show damage. First signs would be scuffs and occasionally the stitching began to break. Little red threads made those stitches and one break usually led to another. Still we played on unless the cover did actually begin to come loose. Each time the ball was hit hard, the cover would continue to unravel. The horsehide started to flap but only on the rare occasion could someone hit the ball so hard the cover actually came off. Usually a mammoth clout finished off the ball and another one from the warm- up bag replaced it. No one complained and we all thought losing the coverless ball was just a part of the game. But the mammoth clout wasn’t that common and took special effort.

      But how about that baseball, the one with the cover knocked off? Roy Hobbs, in the movie, The Natural, hit it so hard and well that the ball unraveled on the way to the outfield. In our life, should we always try our hardest for the things we believe in. The term, “Knock the cover off the ball”, today means going hard, giving our best and just simply making the best effort we can for the intended result. How we can go wrong when doing that?

    Do your best on your walk of faith. If God tells you to do something, work hard and do your best. God will do all the things you can’t do.

     Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run, that ye may obtain. 1 Corinthians 9:24-25.

By David Freeze

     There have been a few times over the years that I have been embarrassed enough to want to find a big hole and crawl in it. This Thanksgiving Day, I was able to watch the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade from New York City. One of the feature bands for the whole parade was the Western Carolina University Pride of the Mountains Band.

     Founded in 1938 with just 23 students, the band now has about 500 participants. They have a giant sound and amazing choreography when performing on the football field. Students have to apply for acceptance into the probably the top college band in North Carolina.

     Back in 1971, I was pushing hard for acceptance to the United States Military Academy at West Point. A lot of the early hurdles were complete, including all the academics and mental testing. Left to go in the early spring was a week’s worth of physical conditioning and medical testing. I went with two other prospective students, one from Rowan and one from Cabarrus, to Womack Army Hospital at Fort Bragg. I was diagnosed with a heart murmur on the second day and was immediately washed out of the program.

    With just a few months until high school graduation, I quickly applied to WCU and got in. Because I had played in the band at South Rowan High School and greatly enjoyed the experience, I decided to apply for the WCU band. I was accepted for that too.

    In early summer, I was notified that the band students had to report to school about 10 days early in preparation for the early football season performances. As a freshman drummer, or a part of the percussion department, I was in way over my head. I found out that the band was huge and filled with strong musicians, most of them accomplished music majors. Music majors had to practice for hours and then work in band practices too. Those band practices usually took half a day during that first ten days and at least two hours a day once school was in session.

     A lot was expected of the band members and learning the planned choreography was especially challenging. There was a new program each week to learn, usually only lasting about seven minutes when performed.

     As a meek freshman, I was committed to the program and would receive classroom credit for it. As the youngest percussion member, I was given the cymbals to play. Expected to make the perfect cymbal clangs at the right time, I worried more about screwing up my left and right, backwards and forward marching.

     The band went to East Tennessee State in Johnson City, far enough away that we would spend the night after the game. We were told the game was being televised, my first ever such experience. Still, I was excited to be a part of such a high performing band.

     Once arriving at the stadium, we did a walk through of the program and then about 200 band members went to the motel to dress for the game. Sleeping four to a room, I was fortunate to be sharing the space with one good friend and two others that I knew.

     Back at the game, everyone anticipated the halftime performance of the best band around. I was a little nervous but not overly so. With the performance finally underway, I stayed on track until……, I turned the wrong way and immediately stood out like the worst swollen sore thumb!

     Once the program finished and the band back in the stands, the band director (I will never forget his name but won’t use it here) immediately called attention to my error. He said, “Where is Mr. Freeze? Let’s hear it for Mr. Freeze turning the wrong way!” Immediately the whole band said, “Duhhh!”

     For the rest of the game, the evening at the motel and the long ride home, only the one good friend spoke to me. Those errors simply were not made in that program. It seemed as if no one forgot for the rest of the football season, at which time my experience with the WCU band was complete.

    Embarrassed tremendously, I never turned the wrong way again and the bad memory faded. When I look back on it now, I’m at least smiling inwardly. What I thought at the time was the worst possible experience, was certainly not. And probably long forgotten by everybody but me.

    I raised my head, owned my mistake, learned from the experience and moved forward. Just one of many times over the years.