Using Sawmill Slabs For Bats

When the band Alabama released their song "Mountain Music" in 1982, one line caught my attention. "Playing baseball with chert rocks, Usin' sawmill slabs for bats." I have to admit I have no idea what chert rocks are. I do have an idea about what sawmill slabs are and that reminds me of my first baseball bat.

Before I continue, I need to provide a little backstory. According to my mom, my dad desperately wanted a son. I guess that had something to do with him having one brother and seven sisters. Mom said after I was born my dad sent her flowers and a card that read, "You win, it's a girl."

My dad did everything in his power to make a tomboy out of me. He taught me to bait a hook, cast a Zebco 202, throw a perfect spiral, and hit a baseball. I was about four years old when he made me my first bat. He used a piece of scrap lumber and made a flat bat with a tapered handle. This homemade bat looked very similar to a cricket bat. It didn't take me long to become quite proficient at hitting balls off that flat surface. But this girl wanted a real bat and soon got her wish.

A day or two after getting my new bat, I got my first black eye. I wanted to show off my slugging ability to the elderly lady who lived next door. I couldn't find my baseball, so I had my mom toss my basketball to me. Imagining I was Babe Ruth, I swung with all my might and smacked the basketball. The bat rebounded off the basketball and hit my head. I grabbed my eye and rolled on the ground. My poor mom thought I had knocked my eye out. I had a big ole shiner and learned a valuable lesson. Never hit a basketball with a baseball bat.

If a girl has a bat, she should also have a glove. When I asked my dad for a baseball glove, he went up in the attic and brought down his glove. It looked nothing like the gloves the boys in the neighborhood had. This glove had fat fingers like a Charlie Brown glove. There was no way I could squeeze that glove shut. My dad said I needed to catch the ball using two hands. I had hours of backyard practice catching a ball I threw against the house or throwing the ball onto the roof and attempting to catch it before the ball hit the ground. But even with all that practice, I never played baseball because girls didn't play baseball in the 1960's.

Girls did play slow-pitch softball. I heard about the game, but I never saw it played. All I knew was the ball was bigger than a baseball and was thrown underhanded. I thought that meant the ball had to be thrown underhanded by every player on the field. I wanted no part of such a ridiculous game - not when to quote my dad, "She can throw better than most boys."

When I was thirteen, I spent the day with a boy whom I had known since I was a preschooler. His mom coached a slow-pitch softball team. She asked me if I wanted to go hit. I jumped at the opportunity. She laughed at me as I struggled to hit her high arching pitch that seemed to drop from the sky and land behind home plate. She also explained that only the pitcher threw underhanded.

Fast forward a couple of years. My family had relocated to Dyersburg, Tennessee. The church I attended had a ladies' and men's softball team. I wanted to play, but I needed a glove. My dad still said I could use his old glove. There was no way I was showing up with Charlie Brown's glove. I used some money I had saved and went to Big K. (This was before there was a Walmart in every town.) I paid $13 for a Fred Lynn model Wilson glove. I didn't even know who Fred Lynn was at the time, but I thought it was a sign that I needed that glove since my middle name was Lynne.

It didn't take long for me to fall in love with softball. Softball isn't baseball but the game provides much of the same excitement: sliding safely into a base, chasing down a fly ball, diving for a grounder, or getting a game-winning hit. The game has given me opportunities to travel, make some great friends, and impress a boyfriend enough that I became his wife.

The main character in my novel is Cathy Morris. Like me, she loves sports, especially baseball. Like me, she used her athletic ability to capture the heart of the high school baseball star.

Here's an excerpt from my novel, "Driving Timmy's Car."

When Cat woke up early Saturday morning, she decided to go for a run since she had nothing else to do. She rode her bike to the high school track to run before the June day got too hot and humid. As she ran, she noticed the tall muscular boy at the baseball field next to the track. She finished her two miles and grabbed her bike. She couldn't stop watching the boy who she knew was Timmy Wilson. She watched him as he threw a tennis ball over and over off the concrete wall behind home plate. Cathy mustered the courage to walk her bike over to the baseball field.

"Hey, Timmy."

Timmy looked up and flashed a smile that showed off a deep dimple on his right cheek. "Hi. Cathy, right?" Cathy's heart sank. Does he barely remember me or is he just trying to be cool?

"Yeah, Dodie's friend."

"Oh, I know who you are. I'm just messing with you. Man, that's a sweet bike. Is it a Schwinn?"

"It is." Really that's all you can think to say. Come on Cat you can do better.

"That must have cost a lot. All I have is a Flying O from Otasco," Timmy teased.

"So, what are you doing out here by yourself?"

"Always gotta practice. Usually, my dad is out here with me, but he has had to work weekends lately."

"Yeah, my dad has been working weekends at the plant too. Is there anything I can help you do?"

"Now what can a pretty little thing like you do besides run?"

Cathy could feel her face turn red, but she was quick to say, "I'm actually pretty good at baseball."

"Oh, you are, are you? Then why don't you come out here and give me a hand."

Cathy tightened her ponytail and followed Timmy onto the field. After talking for a few minutes, Cathy convinced Timmy she could hit ground balls to him at shortstop. He left her with a bat and a bucket of balls and ran out to his shortstop position. The plan was she would hit him a grounder and he would make a throw to the first baseman, which was a trashcan he had moved from the dugout. It had been a few years since she had played "flies and skinners" with her boy cousins. She wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts, gave the ball a slight toss into the air, and then connected with the bat. The ball jumped off the bat towards Timmy. The speed of the ball surprised him. He fielded the ball and threw it at the trashcan. He smiled and nodded for another ball. It didn't take long for Cathy to hit all the balls in the bucket. When Timmy fielded the last grounder he asked, "Do you think you could hit another round to me only this time hit them to my right and left?"

"Whatever you want is fine with me," Cathy responded as she helped Timmy gather the balls. She hit each ball as hard as she could attempting to make Timmy move from side to side. Timmy fielded each ball with the ease of a seasoned professional.

Timmy removed his ballcap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He ran his hand through his wavy sandy-colored hair. "Wow, you're not bad for a girl." He placed his cap back on his head and grinned. Cathy felt her heart flutter. He's got to stop smiling like that.

Cathy's confidence increased like the heat of the summer morning. "You think that's something...................