Once a uniquely American sport, baseball has grown in popularity all over the world. Countless nationalities are represented on major league rosters these days.
That popularity extends right here to Cordova.
Just as the first Copper River gill net opener is a sure harbinger of spring, so is the colorful array of uniforms worn by wildly enthusiastic Little Leaguers racing about the ball field across from Cordova High School.
Hearing the clink of metal bat against ball, followed by cheers and honking car horns, brings back memories of days of yore.
Who doesn’t have some favorite sports moment stored in mind as a player, parent, coach, or fan.
Mine dates all the way to back to 1981 on that very field. CHS shop teacher John Goodridge and I coached a team of 8-and 9-year-olds that included his twin sons Wade and Cade and my daughter Heidi.
Back then there was no massive scoreboard beyond left field, but we all knew we were entering the last game still seeking our first win.
Hey, the kids were having fun, they all played various positions, batted every inning, ran the bases with reckless abandon, and ate a free hot dog courtesy the coaches at the end of the game.
In the last inning of our final game the score was tied. Heidi was playing right field, and a screaming liner was hit right at her. Of course I was petrified, yet she held her mitt open in front of her face, and the ball landed in the pocket.
Assuming it would be a base hit, the opposing runners had taken off, and our entire team jumped up and down while screaming at her to run to first base. It was double play, our first of the season, and now we had a chance to cap it off with our first win of the season.
The rain that had been a drizzle became a downpour. Black clouds were scudding by the peak of Mt. Eyak at an alarming rate. The field was quickly filled with puddles and footing was slippery.
I conferred with John’s wife Glenda, who was coaching in place John for good reason – he and a crew of friends were tearing the aging roof off their house up on the hill off Fourth Street. From the dugout we could see them frantically trying to cover rafters with blue tarps as all the lower floors were exposed to the deluge.
Glenda said: “I know what John would say. Don’t worry about the house. Stick with it.”
So up to bat we went. Balls were splashing in puddles and taking weird bounces. Just like that the bases were loaded with no one out.
With the next batter waiting to swing, there was a bright flash followed by the crack of thunder beyond the peak of Mt. Eyak. Not heard nor seen was the ball soaring past the shortstop. The startled batter had swung in response to nature’s fireworks.
Through a haze of rain, the runner scored from third base.
The umpire immediately called the game. Our team celebrated and danced in the downpour before racing to the warmth of their parents’ cars.
Glenda and I along with our kids raced up the hill to see what their house looked like. The power was off, but water could be seen pouring through sagging ceiling sheet rock throughout the house.
Glenda noticed a strange odor. Those big blue tarps John and his crew were spreading over roof rafters? They were volunteered by a commercial halibut fisherman who just returned from a long opener and hadn’t had time to rinse them off.
Many years later I asked Glenda what she remembered most about that day. “For some reason, I always remember a cake I had baked for the crew. It was sitting on the kitchen table. Water was dripping on it, and blue frosting was running on the floor,” she said.
We gathered up dry clothes and sleeping bags, and headed to our house, just two blocks from the field. The kids dried off and warmed up with hot chocolate, and spent the night snuggled in their sleeping bags in front of a roaring blaze in our fireplace.
And for a bedtime snack, they ate blue popcorn balls in honor a “walk-off” win to remember.
