Professor Baseball: Searching for Redemption and the Perfect Lineup on the Softball Diamonds of Central Park

242 Pages·2007·1.72 MB·English

by  Edwin Amenta

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searching for
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and the
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on the
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of
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the university of chicago press • chicago and london
edwin amenta is professor in the Department of Sociology at
New York University, and at the University of California, Irvine
The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637
The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London
© 2007 by The University of Chicago
All rights reserved. Published 2007
Printed in the United States of America
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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-01666-5 (cloth)
ISBN-10: 0-226-01666-8 (cloth)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Amenta, Edwin, 1957–
Professor baseball : searching for redemption and the perfect
lineup on the softball diamonds of Central Park / Edwin Amenta
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-13: 978-0-226-01666-5 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-226-01666-8 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Softball—New York (State)—New York. 2. Amenta, Edwin,
1957– 3. College teachers—Recreation—New York (State)—New
York. 4. Middle aged men—Recreation—New York (State)—New
York. 5. Central Park (New York). I. Title.
GV881.A47 2007
796.357'8097471—dc22 2006030305
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum
requirements of the American National Standard for Information
Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials,
ANSI Z39.48-1992.
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the sweater-wearing talking heads who wax poetical in front of Ken Burns’s
cameras, I’m going to be playing ball in New York City this summer, probably
on five softball teams. At this late date I am still trying to prove myself. My
ball-playing career has been checkered at best. I had a great season as a nine-
year-old at the lowest level of the local Little League in our Chicago suburb.
I was the team’s top hitter, threw a no-hitter, and played shortstop or catcher
when I wasn’t pitching. With the championship on the line, two outs in the
bottom of the last inning, I hit a home run. My sterling performance earned
me promotion to the major leagues of Little League.
In the majors I was overmatched. Between the ages of ten and twelve the
other kids grew, but I held steady at four-foot-eight, sixty-five pounds. In
my first season I got no hits whatsoever, waving hopelessly at heaters un-
leashed by kids with precocious pituitaries. For the good of the team I was
relegated to the minimum three outs in the field or one plate appearance. I
had plunged from superstar to mascot. I did only marginally better in Pony
League, where I was the littlest guy on a losing outfit sponsored by the Opti-
mist Club, whose manager expressed his confidence in my hitting by shout-
ing from the bench for me to bunt.
I have a team photo from my Little League days that reveals my plight. I
am, of course, in the front row, third from the right, wedged in with the other
small kids. My neighbor Stevie, one of the starters, stands directly behind me.
A year older and a head taller than me, he has just slapped my cap askew. This
exposes my wiry hair, which older teammates would rub for luck, to bond
with each other, or just to annoy me. As the shutter snaps Stevie is relating
something rudely nonsensical to ensure that I will flash a stupid, metallic
grin for posterity. I keep the photo in a frame on my dresser.
My change in status was more upsetting for me than it might have been for
most. My love for and ability to play baseball were the only things that made
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