Kvelve's Comments: Batter up

One of the coolest things in my sports-filled life may seem weird to many, but to the 12-year-old version of me it was off-the-charts cool.

It was also a lot of work. 

Back in those days, and from what I can tell to this day, Billings was an American Legion baseball hotbed.  In the early 60s, Billings guy Dave McNally, the hall of fame pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles, led the Post 4 Royals to the title game of the Legion World series...twice. 

At one point the Royals were riding a streak of 20-plus Montana Legion baseball championships.  Attendance at Royals’ game in the old wooden stands that made up Cobb Field, was always solid. 

I sold popcorn, hot dogs and soft drinks while walking through stands yelling such catch phrases as “tube steaks (hot dogs), right here...get your fresh, not tube steaks”. 

On a good night, I could go home with a couple bucks or more in my Wrangler pockets. 

But the job that I felt so fortunate to land while a young lad was being chosen the team’s bat boy by legendary coach Ed Bayne. 

I don’t think I hugged him; he might not have liked that in the enriched testosterone days of the early 60s.  But I was, to say the least, one happy camper. 

My job involved keeping the equipment in order, picking up bats at home plate after the batter dropped them on their way around the bases, and everything else from shining cleats to sweeping the dugout, which was often coated with spit-soaked, used sunflower seeds. 

There was also the task of hosing down the dugout to wash away the stains of Copenhagen or Beechnut chewing tobacco, most of it from the mouth of coach Bayne. 

As a reward, me, 12-year-old Charlie Bandel, got to wear a Royals uniform, complete with the stirrup socks, and accompany the team on road trips throughout the area.  In that summer, we participated in a tourney in Rapid City, South Dakota and while we were there, a trip to Mt. Rushmore was on the agenda. 

I got to sleep in a hotel room with the players and dine at the same table for breakfasts or truck stop delis on the way home. 

I was, as a kid, the envy of my neighborhood buddies. 

The job had its danger level too.  One night, while Royals slugger Greg Boras, a power-hitter in a strong lineup, was taking some warmup swings in the on-deck circle prior to his turn at bat. 

He dropped one of two bats he was swinging, and I instinctively went after it.  Boras took one last swing, connecting with my elbow and eliciting a “whoa” from the crowd of fans near the home dugout circle. 

Nothing was broken.  I remember thinking I’m glad I bent over to pick up the bat, otherwise his swing might have caught me in the head. 

But the rewards outweighed the risk.  On the trip to Rapid City, one of the players took a dare to run around the old-time cabins we were staying in during a fourth of July tournament. 

In his underwear. 

As soon as he stepped outside the door to begin his frantic run, he heard the door shut and lock behind him...in broad daylight. 

Okay, that guy was me.  But out of that incident a legend grew in batboy circles.  I managed to run to the back of the cabin and dive through a ground floor window that was open. 

Coach Bayne never knew, at least we assumed he didn’t.  He once booted a wise guy player in the behind with his cleats on. 

Neff said.  

Not sure why this memory surfaced, but all these years later it brought a big grin to my face. 

I was hanging out with the “big boys” and doing stupid things just like them! Batter up!