So, I got this idea in my head a while back, you know? Just wanted to get a casual game of baseball going. Nothing serious, just some fun out in the sun. And I live near this area, folks call it Blue Mountain, sounds idyllic, right? Figured it’d be the perfect spot for some good old “blue mountain baseball.” Man, was I in for a ride.
First thing I did was try to find a decent spot to play. You’d think in a place with “Mountain” in its name, there’d be plenty of open space. Wrong. I drove around, scouted some local parks. One place had a diamond, but it was either locked up tighter than a drum or overrun by some super serious league that booked it months in advance. Other spots were just, well, lumpy fields full of holes. Not exactly ideal for chasing a fly ball unless you wanted a twisted ankle.
Then came getting people together.
This was where the real fun began. I’m not kidding. I put up some flyers at the local grocery store, the coffee shop, even posted in a couple of those online community groups. The response? Mostly crickets. I got a few “Oh, that sounds fun!” messages, but when it came to actually committing? Ghost town.
The few brave souls who did show some interest, their schedules were all over the place. It was like trying to herd cats, I swear.
- One guy could only do Tuesday evenings, but only if it didn’t rain, and only if his mother-in-law wasn’t visiting.
- Another lady was keen, but only on Sunday mornings before 8 AM. Before 8 AM!
- And then there was the equipment issue. Or lack thereof.
Turns out, hardly anyone owned a glove, let alone a bat. I had an old wooden bat from my school days and a couple of baseballs that had seen better days. That was pretty much our entire arsenal. We were looking at a very minimalist game of baseball here.
After what felt like an eternity of nagging, pleading, and coordinating, I finally managed to get about seven people to agree on a time and a place. The “place” ended up being this patch of somewhat flat grass behind an old community hall. Not exactly Fenway Park, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
So, we showed up. It was… an experience. We barely had enough people for two tiny teams. One fella brought his kid’s plastic bat because, and I quote, “it’s lighter.” We spent more time chasing foul balls into the bushes than actually playing. Someone almost took out a bird with a wild pitch. It was chaotic, a bit ridiculous, and honestly, pretty funny.
So, what did I learn from my grand Blue Mountain baseball experiment? Well, for one, organizing anything, even something as simple as a pickup baseball game, is way harder than it looks. People are busy, fields are scarce, and good intentions don’t always translate into actual participation.
But you know what? Despite the bumps, the no-shows, and the distinct lack of athletic prowess on display, for those couple of hours, we were out there. We were doing something. It wasn’t the perfect game I’d imagined, not by a long shot. But it was something. Maybe next year I’ll just join an established league, save myself the headache. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll try to rally the troops in Blue Mountain again. But if I do, I’m starting way earlier, and I’m bringing more baseballs. A lot more baseballs.
