Playing with the golden boys of summer

Kregg Halstead

There are places that disappear from maps but never from memory. For me, Storm Lake’s baseball fields and diamonds are among them.

When my family moved from Aplington (then population around 1,000) to Storm Lake in the summer of 1972, I was six years old. What struck me immediately was that baseball seemed to be everywhere. East School hosted the Pee Wee and Major Leagues. North School and Bradfield Field belonged to the Minors. Memorial Field near Lake Shore Cafe and Super Valu Field near Super Valu grocery together were home to the Babe Ruth League. On warm summer evenings, every field and diamond was alive with children, parents, coaches and the unmistakable sights and sounds of America’s pastime.

Fortunately for me, I had two older brothers, each surrounded by a large group of neighborhood friends. They taught me far more than the rules of baseball. They taught me how to turn a double play, how to back up a throw, when to tag up, and all the little unwritten lessons that make baseball such a wonderful but complex game.

Whenever we weren’t playing organized baseball, to avoid breaking windows of neighboring houses, we played Wiffle Ball in the Perry family’s vacant lot on Pleasantview Drive, which served as our own miniature Yankee Stadium. My friends and I even founded the “World Wiffle Ball League (WWBL)” which maybe did not have the longest shelf life, but was all great fun. 

Rarely did I ride my bicycle anywhere without carrying my treasured Easton aluminum bat (28 inches and ordered from the Austad catalog from Sioux Falls, S.D.), my glove — the finest Holiday Gas Station on North Lake Avenue had to offer in its sporting goods section — and my prized baseball, a souvenir from the Minnesota Twins Ball Day.

I simply lived for and loved baseball.

In my first experience in organized baseball playing for the Hornets in the Pee Wees, even though the games did not start until 6:30 p.m., as soon as I got home from school at around 3:30 p.m., I would proudly put on my green Hornets uniform. Anything to make the time prior to a game pass more quickly   

And one of the things that made Storm Lake Little League so special was that it brought together nearly every boy in town. It made no difference whether you attended North, South, East, West or St. Mary’s. Once baseball season began, everyone played together. Many of the players who attended St. Mary's — Tom Laven, Mike Wright, Tony Peck and others — were among the very best players in the league, and friendly rivalries during the school year disappeared once we put on our uniforms.

That was one of Little League’s greatest gifts. It built friendships that crossed neighborhoods, schools, faiths and backgrounds.

My favorite memory from the Minor League remains one unforgettable swing.

After striking out repeatedly during my first games against live pitching — and becoming notorious for bailing out of the batter’s box whenever the ball came inside — I finally connected.

As a left-handed batter, I hit to my own astonishment a major poke driving a pitch deep into right field at North Field (way over the right fielder’s head). The ball one-hopped the fence protecting East Milwaukee Avenue. It was a legitimate triple, but an overthrow at third allowed me to touch home plate standing up.

To a nine-year-old boy, it might as well have been Game Seven of the World Series. I couldn’t believe it. All that hitting practice had finally paid off. 

And Storm Lake had a wonderful post-game tradition. After every game, players received an ice cream treat from either Cone-E-Corner or Tastee-Freez. Playing and participating earned a small cone. Doubles brought a large cone. Triples meant a sundae. Home runs were rewarded with the grand prize — a gigantic milkshake.

Later that evening, sitting in Sunrise Park between the lake and the city swimming pool with my parents beside me, I slowly consumed what seemed to be a 64 ounce chocolate shake. It must have taken nearly an hour to finish.

I’ve never been certain whether it actually tasted that good.

Or whether happiness and contentment simply have a flavor.

By the time I reached the Major League, the second game of the evening was played under the lights. There was something magical about baseball after dark. Classmates, siblings and parents filled the bleachers, moths circled the high up big and bright lights and the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with popcorn, snow cones, licorice, and warm summer air.

One evening in 1976, I went home after a game and turned on the television just in time to hear speaker after speaker praising a little-known Georgia governor named Jimmy Carter as the Democratic National Convention held in New York City nominated him for President. I did not realize then that I was witnessing history or how such childhood events influence you. For the rest of my life, I have been and always will be a Carter-backer and admirer. Such a great person and what a momentous 100-year life of service to our nation and world.     

Another evening in 1979, while we played, ominous clouds gathered to the east. It was the night of the devastating Manson tornado which destroyed much of the town. I will always remember how dark and foreboding that scary sky was.

My manager in the Major Leagues, Jim Van Scoyk of the Tigers, possessed a marvelous sense of humor. Whenever I pitched (I was pretty so-so), he would remind our outstanding and strong-armed catcher, Mike Saar, “Mike, don’t throw the ball back to Kregg harder than he pitched it to you. It’s embarrassing for our team.”

Our dugout always erupted in laughter.

Eventually I graduated into the Babe Ruth League, where we competed against neighboring towns such as Albert City, Sioux Rapids and Truesdale. Facing players from other communities made us feel as though we had reached the big leagues.

But by then another sport derived from my baseball playing had captured my imagination.

Tennis. As a right-handed tennis player, my two-handed backhand was my natural (batting left-handed) baseball swing. Whereas most tennis players struggle their entire career with their backhand, mine from my first city tennis lesson at Chautauqua Park was (to be less than modest) really good. And I never really had to practice it. It was just natural all flowing from my baseball swing honed from playing Little League.

Eventually, trying to play both sports proved impossible. So, on an early July evening in 1981, at age 15 right after ninth grade, with some real sadness as the Babe Ruth season came to an end, I walked off the baseball field for the final time as a player.

Coincidentally, 12 months earlier I had watched the opening set of Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe’s legendary 1980 Wimbledon final before leaving for baseball practice. Two hours later I rushed home expecting the match to be long over, only to discover they were incredibly still playing after their unforgettable 18-16 marathon fourth set tiebreaker.

Today many of those baseball fields and diamonds have changed. Some teams no longer exist. Many of the coaches and parents who generously devoted countless summer evenings to us have sadly passed away. The boys who once chased fly balls are now grandfathers.

Yet every time I hear the sharp crack of a bat on a warm June or July evening, I find myself back in Storm Lake.

I can still see East School.

I can still smell what, to me, was not the Hygrade packing plant but simply the smell of baseball.

I can still hear teammates yelling encouragement to the batter or the pitcher.   

I can still taste that enormous chocolate shake.

Little League taught us far more than how to hit or throw a curveball or turn a double play. It taught us sportsmanship, perseverance, teamwork, friendship and how an entire community could come together to invest in its children.

We didn’t know it then, but we truly were the golden boys of summer.

Storm Lake fully earned its nickname, “The City Beautiful,” during baseball season.

Looking back after nearly half a century, I realize we were playing for something much bigger than victories or championships.

We were playing for memories.

And those memories have never left us …

Kregg Halstead with his family lived in Storm Lake from 1972-1986. Ages 7 and 8, he played for the Hornets in the Pee Wees. Age 9, the Demons in the Minors. Ages 10, 11, and 12, the Indians and Tigers in the Majors. Ages 13, 14, and 15, the Athletics in Babe Ruth. In his nine seasons playing Storm Lake Little League, he had, by his own words, “the time of his life.”