Today is August 23, 2002, and I have been thinking about writing this story since August 15, 2002. August 15th of each year was the day that we always started working out twice daily, for football, until the start of school, or about September 1st each year.
I suppose that day will always stick out in my mind, because it serves as a reminder of two miserable weeks in August on the coast of Louisiana every year while I was in high school and playing football. We showed up each morning by seven o'clock to start each wonderful day. The tall weeds on the field had heavy dew each morning in August, and the mosquitoes were just delightful. We tried to kill one another most of the morning, and then we went home for lunch. When we went back at two o'clock in the afternoon, we went down into the dungeon in the gym to put on the pads that had been soaked with perspiration during the morning workout. The ammonia smell was enough to knock the wind out of you when you went into the dungeon, and then we tried our very best to kill one another once again that afternoon until about five o'clock. Day after miserable day, why in the hell we wanted to be such miserable gladiators, is beyond me.
I was reminded, today, as I clicked on the links button on the left navigation bar, then I clicked on the Banner Tribune link. Sadly, I found an obituary notice for a classmate of mine, Zoe Shackelford. The paper simply said that she died Tuesday, August 20, 2002 at Our Lady of Lourdes Regional Medical Center in Lafayette. Zoe was only 57 years of age at the time of her death. Damn, I am 58 and closer to 59 than I would like to think, however she and I were in the same graduating class at Franklin High School in 1962. This is probably the first I have heard of her or even thought about her since we graduated in 1962.
I happened to notice a couple of weeks ago that Allen Dupuy, another classmate, checked out before Zoe did. Allen had been a fairly slow learner in school, and I can remember wanting to pull the answers out of him when we were kids so that we could just move on to something else. Later in life, I was forced to laugh at myself, as I became completely dependant on Allen to fix my lawn mower. Each of us has something useful on our plates, and whatever I have, it damned sure is not lawn mowers! It is also not computers or anything else that requires the least bit of mechanical or electrical skills. I can ride a lawn mower; drive a car (?), and type on a computer, but please don't ask me to fix any of these things.
Damn, now I know why my mother and father were so damned interested in the obituary section of the newspaper. I stopped at my neighbor's house on my way home this afternoon to pick up my tractor; it has been there for the past month while he fixed it again. Russell Blevins is this man's name, and while we were talking, he referred to some old man about fifty years old. I just looked at him a little funny, and he realized what he had just said as it related to me being on the latter end of that age scale. We laughed, but I realized that I had just lost my former tractor mechanic and my present one was looking at me as a "Fatherly Figure!"
Somewhere, over a year ago, in the "Spring" of my life, I wrote about playing little league baseball. Now that I have written quite a lot more, I thought I had better expound upon that era before I, too, take a nosedive. I can recall the first game I pitched in little league; Jerry Sunberg was the umpire. He later told me, that his first impression was that "this was going to be a piece of cake." My first pitch shattered his expectations; he told me that he did not even see the ball. He simply called it a strike and dug in for what was to become a rude awakening and a long afternoon. Ovey Guillotte umpired most of our games, throughout the years, and it was a real treat for the spectators just to watch his gestures and his expressions as he called a ball game!
The years thirteen through seventeen are somewhat blurry. The ages thirteen through fourteen were spent playing in a youth baseball league sponsored by the Sheriff's Department of St. Mary Parish. The ages fifteen through seventeen were spent playing American Legion Baseball, and the two seem to run together now.
I had been a fairly good left-handed pitcher when I played little league, but as I got older, and the mound moved back to 60' 6", I was not quite so impressive. For whatever reason, I have always had more strength in my right arm, and the increased distance from the plate became more and more apparent as the hitters became more and more effective against me. Chris Ibert did not help matters any either as it always seemed that he managed a team that was competing against our team. Chris had, very astutely, recognized the fact that I liked to throw strikes, and he would tell his boys to hang in there without fear, because I was going to throw strikes. He was absolutely correct, as I did not like to waste a pitch even when the count was 0 and 2 on any batter. I never seemed to get the message that I would be more effective if I just brushed a batter back every now and then. If I had a batter in the hole with an 0 and 2 count, I went for the strikeout on the third pitch. Many times, I ate that third pitch rather than sitting a batter down. With Chris' encouragement, most batters found they had nothing to lose when they found themselves in that situation. So, thanks to Chris Ibert, I gave up an inordinate number of hits and home runs!
Here is where the blur begins. It seems as though Glenn Bodin always played shortstop, Charlie Porche was always the catcher, John Henry Broussard was always the first baseman, Jimmy Bodin was always the second baseman, and David Sinitiere was always the third baseman. Tommy Champagne always played left field, I always played centerfield, and Louis Hebert always played right field. Now, I know that is incorrect, but more that forty years later, that is the way it seems.
I am certain that John Henry Broussard played first base on the Cabot team in little league." Big John" was a left-handed hitter, and it was a real showdown when he hit against me in little league. I recall quite clearly how - one night - "Big John" thought I had thrown him a high, hard curve ball, however, the ball had just slipped out of my hand slightly early, and it hit him squarely in the head. He was on the ground long enough that we needed to warm up in the infield while he was being attended to. Frankly, I was concerned that I had actually killed him, but believe me, he lived to hit again on another night! Carlos Senllgrove was the next batter up, and he was only nine years old. Now that is not quite fair, but he quickly took his three swings and got the hell out of there!
Not very many things stand out during those last few baseball years, but a couple of things still remain embedded somewhere deep inside of my head. Glenn Bodin was always a really good lead off hitter and Charlie Porche and I usually alternated hitting third and fourth in the lineup. I recall one outing when we were playing in the Sheriff's League; we played a team either in Wyandotte or Amelia. These two small communities are located east of Morgan City, but I cannot distinguish between the two at the moment. However, I can recall watching the starting pitcher for the opposing team warm up. This boy just lobbed the ball, and it just barely made it to the plate. As I looked on, I began to wonder when he was going to start throwing. Since we were the visiting team, we hit first, and I was batting fourth in the lineup this particular day. One of our hitters got on base, so I came up to the plate with two outs and one man on base. As I stepped into the batter's box, I heard someone in the stands say, "that's their cleanup hitter." I was quite embarrassed when he struck me out! Damn this boy could barely reach the plate, and he struck me out! Can you believe that? I was the cleanup hitter, and he struck me out! I still cannot believe that happened, but unfortunately that is one of the things I remember very well!
Their park was nothing more than an old cow pasture with a large tree in left field. So, in the third inning, when I came up again, I waited him out and smashed the ball over the tree in left field. As I rounded second base, I saw the left fielder still running after the ball, so I just jogged the rest of the way home. That quieted the home team crowd and allowed me to live another day to hit in the cleanup position.
I played American Legion ball, but I really should not have done so, as my heart was not really in the game any longer. I was old enough to work at a filling station by then, and I would have preferred to make a small amount of money that I could use to buy clothes and other personal commodities. However, once I made the commitment, I could not just quit the team and let the other guys down, so I stayed on until the end.
The only thing that stands out in my memory, while playing Legion ball, was the night we hosted Abbeville. Their pitcher had a no hitter going into the top of the ninth inning, and I slapped a short blooper just out of reach of the shortstop and the left fielder. The ball hit the ground softly, but it dropped in as a clean base hit. I think that is the only hit we got that night, and it just ruined the evening for the youth from Abbeville. I think that is the only night I was glad I was playing ball rather than working at a job somewhere.
I think I stated earlier that Franklin High School did not have a baseball team in those days, so there is nothing to write about when it comes to high school baseball, or at least as far as my experience is concerned.
In the mid '50's Franklin had a very good high school baseball team, and I attended all of the home games. It seems strange, but I seem to remember more about their teams than I do about the ones I played on.
Emmett Hebert was the catcher on the 1955 team, and Clyde Breaux was the catcher on the 1956 team. Both boys were damned good hitters and each had a good arm, and base runners were seldom successful when they tried to steal on either of these two catchers. Unfortunately, Emmett was killed on a drilling rig when he was still quite young. Clyde Breaux became a Louisiana State Trooper and retired after many years of service, he is married to Veronica (Ronnie) Marin, who is the daughter of Francis "Engelfinger" Marin and aunt Doucet Luke Marin.
R.J. Pichoff batted left-handed and played first base on one of the earlier teams. He was an excellent hitter, and very few balls got past him at first. R.J. became Captain of Troop C in Louisiana, and he died a fairly young man after a bout with colon cancer. I affectionately knew him as "The Inspector." The Inspector's" bride, "Miss Pontiff" was a valuable employee of mine shortly before Elvis Presley died. "Miss Pontiff" and "The Inspector" had two daughters, Fran and Solonge.
Charles Frederick also played first base, and his cousin Adam was a pitcher. I could be wrong about their relationship, but if I am, I am not off by much, one was "Miss Pontiff's" brother and the other was her cousin.
Bernie Boudreaux is the only second baseman that I can remember from those days, and he was a left-handed batter who threw right-handed. He was a very good fielder, and a good punch hitter. He could also pull the ball to right field when necessary. He was an intelligent second baseman, and when he teamed up with the shortstop, Amar Lancon, the double play was nearly perfectly executed. I want to save Amar for last, but I needed to insert him here to make the double play complete.
Alden Curry played third base, and seldom did one see a ball handled improperly at the hot corner. Alden was a good hitter too, and he rounded out the infield.
Dr. Stirling played left field, and he was the weak link in the defense for the Hornet nine. However, his offensive game was quite impressive. I recall once when he faced a pitcher named Baque from Scott High School. This boy had a curve ball that seemed to come from third base and somehow drop out of the sky and right over the plate. Dr. Stirling once told me that his most embarrassing moment in high school athletics came as he was flat on his back in the dirt adjacent to home plate. It was here that Ovey Guillotte, with his usual flair and dramatic body language, exclaimed, "Steerike Three!" Damn, I was in the stands, and I was so embarrassed for him, that I thought he should Quit Right Then and There! Hapless is a totally inadequate word to describe his plight. The crowd chanted, "Get The Hook." "Get The Hook." The whole thing was just pitiful!
Baque went on to play in the Japanese Major League, and he retired after many years of service to their country. Two years ago, while Scott was at Mickey Owen, a young coach from St. Thomas Moore High School in Lafayette, Louisiana, was working at the camp. This young man's last name is St. Julien, and I found out that he was Baque's nephew or cousin. Their respective homes are within sight of each other, and unfortunately St. Julien was too young to have seen Baque pitch. I feel certain that, not only Dr. Stirling, but also the entire Franklin team wished they had been too young to witness his exhibitions. To this day, I have never seen a more wicked curve ball than the one thrown by the Baque youth from Scott, Louisiana. I doubt very seriously if anyone in Japan ever saw anything even close or comparable either.
Pres Foster played centerfield for the Franklin Hornets, and he was one of the few right-handed hitters who could hit the ball over the roof of the school and out onto Perret Street. Pres went on to become the first President of the St. Mary Parish Council. His father, Mr. Murphy, was the gentleman who sold me the lot on Bayou Teche in Centerville. You might remember my leaving him in his attorney's office without giving him my check.
Byron Price was younger than the rest of the team that I describe here, but he is the only right fielder that I can remember. He was a red headed youth, and he had a most unfortunate position as "Alter Boy" in the Episcopal Church. Damn, I was so glad to exit that place for the last time when my mother died. I swore right then that I would never go back, and I plan to be cremated and burn in hell before going back into that building. It's a beautiful church, but I don't especially like churches.
Amar Lancon was the shortstop on the Franklin Hornet team for three or four years. He was one of the most exciting athletes ever to wear a Franklin uniform. Amar was not only the shortstop on the baseball team, but he was the fullback on the football team for four years, and he probably lettered in track and field four times too. I think he threw the shot put. Amar probably made the all-state teams in football, basketball, and baseball four year in a row. He attended Tulane on a baseball scholarship, and eventually retired from the St. Mary Parish School System, serving as Superintendent of Education for a number of years. As I finish off this chapter, I think it is debatable whether Amar Lancon or Larry Markham was the greatest athlete ever to come out of Franklin High School. I think I will bring that up in Reflections XII.
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