Pegging Second Base

This is Honus Wagner, who was a great ballplayer 100 years ago. If you like reading baseball books, I suggest GLORY OF THEIR TIMES which is basically old-timers telling their wonderful stories and Lawrence Ritter writing it down so it would be remembered.



In that book, there are some tremendous stories about Wagner, who doesn't look like a shortstop but played the position with aplomb. For instance, first basemen were well aware that when Wagner threw to first base there would be a few small pebbles along with the baseball when it arrived. He was more "scoop" than "Ozzie Smith."

My father was born in Radisson, Saskatchewan on June 14, 1912. He was one of 14 children born to Norman and Una Babcook. He was once struck by lightning (in Fielding, Sk), fought in WW2 (and lost a brother, Roy, who was a member of the Seaforth Highlanders and died in April 1945), worked on the farm until after the war and then headed for Vancouver (where he met my Mom). He was an edgerman in sawmills when I was born, and kept moving around when they became unionized in the 1960s (I remember moving from Haney to Sydney to 100 Mile House to Burns Lake in short order just because everyone carried a picket sign in 1960s BC, or so it seemed to me based on what was discussed at the supper table). He later worked for CN in Maidstone, Saskatchewan until they retired him and then worked into his 70s when his health finally began to fade.

My father rarely talked about the war, never burdened me with the tough stories of the "dirty 30s" (only the funny ones, and there were hilarious stories), and gave his sons the general impression that he had been blessed.

My father gave me baseball. When he was a young man, there was a time for work, a time for school (not much, though. Those Saskatchewan kids of that era really didn't have a chance for education, at least many of them), and a time for baseball. My Dad played in a pretty good hardball league when he was young (the same league the Detroit Red Wings would later ban Gordie Howe from playing in each summer) and he was a catcher. The son was not the athlete his father was, but the beauty of baseball transcends timelines and can be appreciated on many levels. I love hockey, but my first love is baseball and it's due completely to my father and how he took the time to teach me the game.

I'm fairly confident that in the history of time no two males talked more about "pegging second base" than me and my Dad. He would tell stories of not actually waiting for the ball to hit the mitt (can't imagine what the mitt looked like), but grabbing it barehanded to save time. The night he died I stared at his hands for a long time, because they were always so damn interesting. He was a working man, so they were rough from years of work (and he had frozen them many years ago while trapping near Midnight Lake, Sk) and worn from time, and his nails were as thick as two quarters. No doubt some of that came from "pegging second base." He was always a very happy guy, never moreso than when talking about the game he loved and the time of his youth.

I think about my Dad everyday. It's been 15 years since he passed (Ira Babcook died on June 14, 1992, his 80th birthday), and he never got to meet either of my kids. Which seems incredible since they have so much of him in them, from the humor to the unique way of looking at life to the ridiculous Dutch stubborn streak (which apparently skips a generation because I possess none of this). :-)

I'm working tomorrow so can't post this on Father's Day, but since this blog is kind of about me and my experiences re:hockey, I think it's important that I give credit where it's due: My Dad. The things he gave me when I was a child, like baseball, are the things I hold most dear today. I still see the game of hockey through his eyes, because that's how I learned the game. I know Bobby Orr was a great player because Dad never said a negative word about him, just watched in awe like the rest of us (most of the players who entered the league after 1970 were called "hoods" and "hippies" by my Dad).

I can see 50 straight ahead, and as time rolls on it's impossible to avoid the past (since I have so damn much of it). I've made a pretty nice life for myself, and had so much more opportunity to make it than my Dad did, due in large part to his hard work and the guidance he gave me.

So, a word of advice. If your Dad is still alive (even if it isn't your biological Dad, you know who your Dad is), then drive over to his house, or call him, or do something in the next 48 hours to let him know you love him.