Home Page Though I am not a writer by any means I do dabble as one as a hobby. Like a weekend golfer, at best I am a "duffer" as a literary person. Still I have scribbled many half finished stories over the years and not a few have been about Warwick. Some of you have proposed sharing your stories so I thought I would risk starting the ball rolling. Please send any and all, long or short. Below is a story from Millie Sudman about Greenwood Lake and one I wrote about Monk Crover that I have kept for years. More to come.         Monk Crover         Bubble Gum         At the Movies         Main Street         Cruising         Poley and Augie Home Page |
Salisbury
Mills Vs. Warwick, circa 1954 The central elements of this story about a
baseball game, as best I can remember, are factual. Still there are many parts,
that while not actually a part of the day that I have described, were an
integral part of how we played our games – unsupervised - in and about the
various fields in the village of Warwick. ************************* Those
around my age will remember a young boy named Monk Crover.
He was a resident of Bellvale, a winsome lad as I
recall, with a kind disposition and a passion for baseball. Those traits plus a
trusting smile made him a friend to all. He
moved away from Warwick , to Salisbury Mills, just at
the onset of his teen years, circa 1954. A few months later we heard from him
again when someone said that Monk had a town baseball team in Salisbury Mills
and he wanted to play Warwick . This is the story of
that game which was played on a summer Saturday at Memorial Park, in Warwick. We
didn’t think that Monk’s Salisbury Mills team would be much good because the
town was so small. There was nothing there but the mill and a few houses and
some fields. There were no stores that we were aware of, nor was there a high
school. Regardless, they showed up and they had a team, which not all towns
had, and that was to their credit or, more likely, to the credit of Monk and
his mother. Our
team was waiting at the field for a good while when we noticed a lone car far
down the road, headed toward us. We figured it was Monk’s team as we watched it
pull up behind the home plate backstop. It idled there for a minute, then shut off and a woman got out. It had to be Monk’s mom.
She let the door stay open and walked to the front of the car where she leaned
back against the fender, her one foot on the ground and the other propped up on
the bumper. She didn’t say anything to us, just stayed there with her arms
crossed and looking out at the field and for the longest while no one else got
out of the car. We
continued playing catch, a bit more self conscious, but careful not to stare. I
started to think that maybe it was only Monk’s mom in the car, but then
suddenly, one by one, kids started spilling out onto the ground. In the middle
of the pile Monk himself jumped up and immediately ran toward the visitors
bench yelling “Let’s go Tigers, Let’s go Tigers.” It
appeared as if the Salisbury Mills kids never heard the name “Tigers” before because
none of them shouted it out like Monk did. They appeared especially aimless
standing in front of their bench, no pepper games and nobody even playing
catch, and once in the field, it was clear that they didn’t know much about
baseball. Every time Monk said “Ok, around the horn,” they just threw the ball
back to the pitcher. Also the outfielders didn’t seem to know where to stand,
and Monk had to show them at the start of every inning. Our
team was different. We knew everything about how to act like ballplayers. Even
though we didn’t have uniforms, some of us fixed our pants so they looked like
the real thing by stuffing our trouser legs into our socks. And most of us had
baseball caps. Plus sometimes our fielders left their gloves out in the outfield
grass between innings the way big leaguers did. We swung two or three bats
around and rubbed dirt on our hands before we batted and when we did bat we
copied our favorite player’s batting stance. I had a stance like Stan Musial.
We were as good as major leaguers when it came to acting like baseball players. We
got an umpire for this game. His name was Dave Lasky.
He was a big kid and we liked him as umpire because he took the job so
seriously. Sometimes we laughed at how serious he was, but we never did this in
front of Lasky. Lasky was
almost 18 years old and he was big and husky and we thought he looked like a
real umpire. Before the game started he stood at home plate and said, “Let’s
have the captains out here, ” so Doty Faulls went out
for our team and Monk came out for the Tigers. Lasky
proceeded to go over the ground rules, which, to be honest, was something we
had never done before. First thing he said was, “One base on an overthrow. OK?
” The
captains nodded. Lasky
continued, “And I’m calling infield fly rule”. Again,
heads nodded. Then
he said, “And tie goes to the runner,” and he looked
at each of us with his lips pressed tight together and his chin sticking out. The
captains said O.K. Finally
he said, “Any questions?” “Nope”
Doty said. Monk
had a question. “What happens if someone hits a ball in the woods?” Lasky looked at the woods, which were so far out past right
field that it could have been in the next town. I was thinking that if anyone
ever hit a ball there – and believe me, Stan Musial
would have had difficulty - he could run the bases three times. This didn’t
faze Lasky. He thought for a couple of seconds while
he looked in the direction of the woods, “Ground rule double,” he said. Then he
yelled real loud, “Play ball!” and our team ran out to the field, looking just
like the Dodgers. The
first three Tiger batters struck out and looked especially helpless doing it.
We got eleven runs in our half of the inning and might have had more but Lasky called one of our batters out for picking up a foul
tip from the ground and throwing it back to the pitcher. “That ball’s in play,”
he yelled. “Batter’s out.” We didn’t protest
because we were ahead eleven to zero and if you ever argued with Lasky he kicked you out of the game. Something
that he loved doing. Monk
was the first batter for the Tigers in the second inning. As captain, he
apparently assigned himself the cleanup spot. The first three pitches were not
close to being over and, rightfully so, Lasky called
them balls. Then he called two straight strikes. Monk didn’t swing at anything.
We were all pulling for Monk to get a hit on the last pitch but he was clearly
looking for a walk. He didn’t swing at it, but then again it was over his head
and he couldn’t have hit it anyway. Lasky, however,
called it a strike. Monk protested almost to the point of having a convulsion.
We were on Monk’s side with this one, mainly because we were afraid he would
burst a vein in his neck, he was so upset. Regardless, we couldn’t change Lasky’s mind. He insisted that Monk had ducked under the
pitch. Monk finally sat down, but he threw his bat real hard toward the ground
as he walked away. Lasky stared at him with his hands
on his hips when he did that. Anyway the next two Tigers struck out, swinging
at horrible pitches. After
the inning Monk called a time out and he and his mother had a conference and
tried to explain to the Tigers that they shouldn’t swing at any more bad
pitches. “This guy can’t get it over,” Monk said “he’ll walk everyone.” Monk’s
mom came over to the Tiger bench for this pep talk and stood beside Monk. She
talked too I think, because she waved her arms a lot. Then she went back to her
seat, on the car fender. I
guess the Tigers tried their best, but we all yelled “Swing batter,” on every
pitch and they seemed to listen to our advice more than to Monk and his mother
who were yelling, “No bad pitches, make it be a good
one.” Also, Lasky called a lot of pitches strikes
that weren’t strikes. I think Lasky liked saying the
word “Strike” which he pronounced real loud and drawn out like this: “Steeeee… rike.” Monk
managed to get a walk the next time he came up. He trotted to first pumping his
elbows fast as he always did. Once he got on base he started jumping in the air
and yelling “Hey pitcher, Hey pitcher, Hey pitcher,” as if he was going to
steal second. To me it was pretty clear that he wasn’t going to steal, because
he hardly had any leadoff at all. He was only about one step from the base but
he jumped around and screamed so much that Melvin Langlitz,
our pitcher, threw over to first and tried to pick him off. Melvin’s pick off attempt hit Monk right in the middle of his back. Frank
Fotino, the first baseman, jumped back with both
hands in the air and Monk let out a little yell like he was stabbed to death, then
immediately fell face down into the dirt. As he dropped, his right hand reached
out and landed flat on first base. He stayed like that, still and on his
stomach with his hand on first, until finally everyone, including his mother
and Lasky, and our whole team rushed over to see if
he was O.K. We all hovered over him and Monk just lay there with his nose smack
in the dirt, not even turned to the side. He didn’t move but we could see that
he was breathing and also that he wasn’t crying so we thought he was probably
OK. Lasky
turned into paramedic here and yelled at us, “Back off, give him air.” So we
all stepped backed a little, believing that standing too close to Monk risked
his suffocation. Throughout all of this, the Tigers stayed on their bench. I
thought that maybe they were kind of shy, but I also got the idea that they
didn’t really know Monk that well. After a long time flat on the ground for, Monk got up. He was covered with dust which was caked from
the sweat on his forehead. He stood up with both feet on first. Laskey yelled, “Play ball,” and Monk continued yelling “Hey
pitcher” but he took no lead at all now, so Melvin didn’t throw to first again.
Regardless, the Tigers kept swinging away and for the most part, they missed
everything, so Monk never got home. By
the fourth inning we must have had over thirty runs and the Tigers still had
none. I could see that they were beginning to get mad. They started yelling at
us in a very un-baseball like manner. Of course Monk had been shouting for his
team to “Talk it up”, ever since the first pitch, but no Tiger took his advice.
He “talked it up” but mostly alone, and he kept doing it despite the score and
the hopeless situation. When we were up, he shouted at us over and over: “No
batter” and “Swing batter.” With every pitch that Lasky
called a ball Monk said, “Looked good ump.” Also
he told the Tiger outfielders where to play constantly. He knew our players so
he shouted “Lay out!” when good hitters were up and “Lay in!” for the bad
hitters. When the Tigers were up he yelled relentlessly at our pitcher “Hey
pitcher, hey pitcher” and “Wild man, watch it wild man.” This was all regular
baseball talk, but the other Tigers, became more frustrated, started swearing
and called us dumb names like “Moron”, “Cow manure”, Nincompoop,” and worst of
all “Horse Shit”. Monk continued his own chatter but it was a losing battle
trying to get the Tigers to follow along. He also kept telling the Tigers how
and where to play which they no longer seemed to appreciate. Along
about the fifth inning, everything exploded. The Tigers were at bat and Monk
was shouting, “Take the first strike” at their batter and “wild man on the
mound” at our pitcher. The Tigers struck out regardless, despite Monk yelling,
“Take the first strike - wild man on the mound.” Finally after one Tiger struck
out, he dejectedly walked back to the bench and shouted at Monk, “You’re a
Nincompoop”. Monk pretended he didn’t hear this and kept repeating his advice
for the next batter, “Make it a good one, don’t help him out, walk’s as good as a hit.” Suddenly
I heard someone say, “Shut up Nincompoop” and from here things escalated pretty
much into a full-scale shouting match: Monk against the rest of the Tigers.
Since it was eight against one, Monk eventually had to shut up. Technically we
were still playing, but in reality everyone was mainly occupied watching the
argument on the Tiger bench. We could see what was coming next. As the fight escalated,
Monk’s face got redder and the corners of his mouth started to turn down. He
looked over at his mother, then at us and finally he broke down and cried. He
cried so loud that the game just stopped completely and no one knew what to do
next. Frank Fotino walked from first toward the Tiger
bench and said, “Monk, take it easy,” but Monk just cried more and flailed his
arms. “Get away,” he said. Lasky,
wanting to assert control, stepped in front of home plate, waved his arms above
his head and said “Time out!” Then he turned around toward the stands and said:
“Announcement! Announcement! -This game will be forfeited and Warwick wins 1 –
0, unless the riot in the dugout stops.” There was no one in the stands, just two
little brothers sitting on the ground underneath the bleachers playing Mumbly Peg. They looked up momentarily when Lasky said “Announcement,” then resumed playing Mumbly Peg. Honestly
it would be like a moral victory for the Tigers if they only lost 1-0, but
nobody said anything about that. Truthfully, I was mainly worried about how
this situation could ever end, at this point. Then
suddenly Monk stood up and screamed at Lasky,
“Announcement! Announcement!” He paused, caught a breath and then shouted at the sky, “ I’m switching teams!” With that he walked directly from
his bench over to ours, right past Lasky. You could
see that Lasky was a split hair away from throwing up
his arms again and yelling “Forfeit!” but he seemed to reconsider and as Monk
passed behind him he turned his attention back to the field and shouted, “Play
ball!” Everybody
was dumbfounded. Our team, in the field, was pretty much speechless, just
looking at Monk. Monk was sitting all alone in the middle of our bench. His
arms were hanging down in front of him with his elbows between his knees and
his hands clasping his baseball glove. Every so often his shoulders shrugged
like a big hiccup. Only eight Tigers were left on the bench and they all huddled
together like in solidarity. There was nobody up at bat. Lasky
shouted “Play Ball”, but no one moved. Finally Lasky walked
over to the Tiger bench and said “OK who’s up?” No one knew. One kid stood up
and asked “Who made last out, who made last out?” It didn’t seem like anyone
knew. Monk’s mother was still sitting on the fender of her car, with her arms
folded in front of her. The only thing I noticed was that I thought she had
changed fenders. It could have been my imagination, but she was now on the
fender that was closer to our bench. Finally one of the Tigers came up to the
plate with a bat and Lasky shouted, “Play ball!”
again. In
the last inning Monk got up to bat for our team. This started the fighting all
over again and the Tigers began yelling their favorite swear words. We yelled
back, just as loud, and with a few swear words of our own. In the middle of all
of this, at the plate, was Monk, determined, glaring and scowling at the Tiger
pitcher, gritting his teeth, spitting on his hands, and doing everything he
could to be way overly dramatic. When the first pitch hit the dirt about two
feet in front of home plate Monk dove backwards onto the ground as if it were a
beanball. The Tigers yelled “Scaredy
Cat” and we all yelled back “No sweat Monk, make it be a good one”. The next
three pitches were not good ones, and Lasky said,
“Take your base.” Lasky said this with the emphasis
real loud on the word “base”. You could hardly hear the first two words. It
sounded like “kyur BASE!” Monk raced down to first, like
he was the potential winning run for the World Series, them
immediately started to razz the Tiger pitcher. I wanted to tell him to calm
down because I was thinking, like everyone else, what about the ride home with
all of these guys? I
don’t remember exactly how the game ended. My last recollection was of Monk
dancing off of first base and then when the game was over, all of us standing
around patting him on the back saying “Nice game” and stuff. He stood with us
for a while as the Tigers piled into his mom’s car. Finally his mom called out
“Charles, come along.” Monk bid farewell and walked toward the car. We watched
him as he got in and waited anxiously. He climbed into the front seat without a
word and after a moment the door shut and then the car started. We stood frozen
like fence posts, next to our bikes and holding the handlebars; watching and
listening as Mrs. Crover’s Chevy started to roll
away. Then we hopped on our bikes and raced after them. We peddled furiously, some
with fingers gripping bats that lay across the handlebars. Others had baseballs
wedged between the crossbars, and all with gloves dangled off the handlebars. A
couple of kids lagged behind because they carried double, a little brother on
the crossbar or the back fender. Halfway
down the road Monk’s car stopped. I thought that maybe they forgot something or
they were waiting for us, to say a last goodbye? We started to catch up but
then they started going again and though we kept peddling it wasn’t long before
they were out to the main road and then almost out of sight. Finally we all slowed
up and waved and shouted, “So long Monk” and someone said “See you next year”.
Even though we really thought that we might see Monk again, maybe next year
even, none of us ever did. But we talked about him from time to time throughout
our school years and always wondered how he was doing and nobody ever forgot
the day we played Salisbury Mills in baseball, when Monk switched teams. ________________________________ The End
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