By Trevor Hass
ALAMEDA – An
85-year old man sits at a picnic table at Tillman Park munching on some baseball peanuts on a gorgeous Monday
morning in the middle of August.
He’s wearing the
same outfit he does every week – a worn-out sweatshirt and sweatpants, a pair
of snazzy shades, New Balance shoes and an Oakland A’s hat.
He’s been coming
here, playing Senior Softball, since 1991 – before I was born.
Sam Wales, the
umpire, pauses before he shares who’s older than he is here. He can’t quite
remember at first.
“Jack’s got me
beat,” he says. “He’s 86 now. I’m 85. Forgot about Jack.”
Meet Jack Moore.
He’s the man. He was recently honored on the big screen at the A’s game on his
86th birthday for being a long-time season ticket holder.
I haven’t found
official rankings anywhere, but Jack just might be the best slow-pitch softball
southpaw in the state of the California. He’s come here nearly every Monday for
10 years, and he pitches essentially every time.
“Oh, I don’t
miss days,” Jack says, looking me right in the eye. “Every Monday. Maybe I was
sick once.”
Jack’s been
known to wear a Bras & Mattos hat, but on this particular day he’s sporting
an emerald green Explore Idaho shirt.
He points out
all of his protégés. There’s Barry, who asked Jack how to improve his stance.
Jack molded Warren into a consistent line-drive hitter. Then there’s “Big Ed,”
as Jack calls him, who Jack is determined to turn into a first baseman.
If you need help
on the softball field, Jack’s your guy. He’s been doing this for decades and he
knows a thing or two about hitting.
It’s a few
minutes before first pitch and everyone’s mingling and laughing, as usual.
Yeawa Asabi, a 17-year-old from San Leandro, chats with her grandma,
64-year-old Yvonne “Maxie” Wayne, an Oakland resident who has been coming here
for three years. Walter McQuesten, a charismatic, well-traveled, vivacious man
who graciously lent me his 1983 Mercedes-Benz earlier in the summer, converses
with Charlie Wanczyk about a mutual friend they have from decades ago.
It’s just like
any other Monday. The beauty of California is that the weather almost never
gets in the way. This has been going on for decades, in the same place, with many of the same people.
It doesn’t
matter how old you are. Dick Bellefeuille, a spunky outfielder with some pop at
the plate, once brought his middle-school aged grandson Jared. I’ve brought my
friends Oliver and Jake, and one of my best friends Joe will play next week.
They don’t care who plays, as long as the newcomer respects the game.
They just want
to play softball and have a good time. Nothing is more complicated than it has
to be.
John Busby, an
easygoing, approachable man who often smokes a cigarette and plays some mean
defense, makes the teams, which change every week.
“I try to stack
the teams as subtly as I can without having anyone notice,” John says with a
hint of a smile. “Usually it works out.”
The game gets
started a few minutes after 9:30. I was planning on taking a step back and just
watching and writing, not playing. But when I told John, he seemed
disappointed, and everyone else chimed in encouraging me to still play.
It's been pretty neat to
be an integral part of something my amazing aunt Abbe Kalos (who has
unbelievably kindly let me stay with her for the summer) had told me about. I knew it would be fun, but I had no idea just how fun it would be. So I decided to play this time around, like I have most weeks since late May, and I was in the
field to start the game.
Jack deals Ron
Kimmel what seems like a juicy changeup to start, but Ron takes a mighty hack
and swings and misses. Then Ron crushes one, starting a string of seven
consecutive hits.
Kevin Dundon
smacks a ball to right-center and motors all the way around for an
inside-the-park home run (they’re pretty common here). He holds his hat in
place. Usually it falls off while he’s flying around the bases and he has to go
retrieve it from short after the play’s over, but this time it stays put.
The Red team
scores five runs (the max you can get per inning is five until the seventh and final
frame). Jack paces off the field, ball in glove. “We got ‘em right
where we want ‘em,” he says, drawing a laugh.
Believe it or
not, Jack isn’t the oldest player here. In fact, he’s not even the oldest
pitcher. Don Young, a gentle and patient man who turns 89 on Oct. 18, has been
playing Senior Softball since 1992 when he retired at
the age of 65.
“I pitch because
I can’t do anything else,” Don says. “I can’t see the ball as good as I used
to. I’m getting too old.”
Don throws a
ball, and Maxie, who’s playing first, compliments him on the pitch. Tom Nolan –
a soft-spoken, warm man from Indiana with whom I played tennis a few weeks ago
– shouts to Maxie: “I’m surprised you thought that was nice.”
Maxie turns and
responds, “It’s the first inning. Don’t start, Tom.” It’s all in good fun.
Always is.
Clare Kruse, a
conversational, baseball-crazed man with a tremendous dose of well-timed
sarcasm, creeps up to the plate. The area to the left of the dish is covered in
sand – more than usual – and Clare takes notice.
“I thought I was
too old to play in a sandbox,” he says.
The game moves
forward, and the Red team holds a 7-2 lead in the third. At one point, Jack
turns to Ed and says, “I’m tired, Ed. All I want to do is lay down.”
“I’d say you’re
doing OK, Jack," Ed, a tall man who wears a mask when he’s in the field for
protection, replies.
I hit a sharp
grounder to short and legged out an infield single despite a nice play from
Kevin. “Anyone else, I would have had him,” Kevin, who has even better speed
than I do, yells to me from across the diamond.
I shrug, smile
and give him a point, and two batters later Clare and I come around to score
when Abbe – who’s usually an opposite-field hitter, but picks her spots – hits
a beautiful ball down the third-base line to cut the deficit to 7-5.
The two teams
trade runs. At one point, Kevin hits another inside-the-park homer and his hat
falls off this time. “Why don’t you nail it to your head?” Jack inquires, mostly
kidding, but perhaps a tiny bit serious.
Jack pitched for
years in multiple leagues around the Bay Area. Once he found out about this
league, he never stopped coming. He only remembers two legitimate quarrels in
10 years. For the most part, everyone else gets along despite minor spats here
and there.
“It’s so much
fun. Everybody’s bitchin’ elsewhere,” Jack says matter-of-factly. “I decided I
was going to start coming here every Monday. Its worked out really well. They
let me do whatever I want.”
For Maxie, her
favorite part about coming every Monday and some Thursdays is the camaraderie.
Just something about the atmosphere and the people makes her always come back.
It’s the same
cast of usual suspects nearly every Monday, and around us there are people who
often occupy the park at the same time.
“Seeing people
doing Tai Chi, the children, the old gentleman playing soccer. Eighty-something
years old,” Maxie said. “It’s great to see who can continue to come back and
deliver and make the play. Any given week you don’t know who’s going to do
what.”
On this
particular day the Red team beat the Black team, 24-17. We made it close with a
monster 10-run seventh inning, but ultimately the deficit was too sizable to
surmount.
I’m a very
competitive person and I love to win, but that’s not really what it’s about
here. It’s about the people, all sorts of different folks who come from
entirely different backgrounds and range from 14 to 88.
Moving to a new
city can be overwhelming, but it’s a lot less so when you have something as
steady and sensational as Senior Softball to look forward to every week.
I’m sad to be
leaving Oakland in a few weeks. Everyone here has treated me extremely well,
living-wise, socially and at my internship covering the Oakland A’s for
MLB.com. I had high expectations for the summer, and it’s exceeded them by a
long shot.
In 65 years
– when I’m still younger than Don Young is now – and my grandkids ask me about
my summer in Oakland, I’ll be sure to tell them all about Senior Softball.
And who knows,
maybe it will still be going on in 2080 and I’ll come back, sit on that
same bench and chew some peanuts while a reporter asks me about the good ol’
days at Senior Softball back in the '10s.