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There are three kinds of softball in America today, each determined by the circumference of the ball. There is 12" softball and there is 14" softball. But the only softball worth discussing in the greater metropolitan Chicagoland area is 16" softball or "mushball." This is the game I grew up with. The game my father grew up with, too. One or two bats, a "Clincher" or three and the will to compete are all the equipment you need to play the game. While the park districts of the city of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs are rich in ball fields, it was possible and popular, if not entirely practical, to play the game within the grid pattern of the neighborhood side streets.

While my dad told stories of broken fingers in Chicago's Humboldt Park, my friends and I created the folklore of our own in our own nearby Kostner Park, or occasionally on the corner of Lowell and Birchwood Avenues in suburban Skokie. On summer days, neighborhood kids would converge up at the corner of my block just north of our house. Just in front of the curb of each corner of the intersection was a base admittedly short of the regulation ninety feet between them. Home plate was traditionally agreed upon at the northeast corner of the intersection, and the pitcher's "mound" was smack in the middle at the manhole cover. Games naturally broke out as long as there was a bat and a ball. If there were only a few of us, we would modify the rules accordingly.

"Opposite field out" limits right-handed hitters to hitting fly balls to left field; and lefties, to right. If a right-handed hitter hit a fly ball down Lowell Avenue, the play was determined by the skill of the opposing fielder. But if the right-handed hitter hit a fly ball up Birchwood he was out, end of story. The Nieders' house was center field, such as it was, and where the sidewalk turned at a right angle at the bus stop was the distinction between left and right fields.

"Pitcher's hands out" applies when there are not enough players to man the bases, and a hitter could be forced out at first by a throw to the pitcher.

Traffic was an automatic time-out. It was the responsibility of the player closest to the oncoming vehicle to announce the time-out on its approach with a loud and clear "CAR!"

In all the games we played with all the kids that played in them over all the years of summer games, I know of only one broken window. I don't recall the hitter, or exactly who was there at the time. But I remember the arc of the fly ball high over the pitcher's head, and descending on center field, such as it was. The trajectory of the descent sent the round soft leather missile right for the Nieders' basement window and settled back upon the earth with an oddly muffled crash.

Most of the glass was forced indoors, but the Nieders' basement window where ball landed was on the Lowell Avenue side of the house. Which would be a fair ball, had the hitter been a righty. However, all I remember of what followed was the realization that the Nieders were out of town at the time, and talking one of our more mischievous comrades out of breaking into the house. Parents had to be informed, and the game was over.

Learn more about this author, Barry Dredze.
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