Next month, myself and eight other men will be inducted in the Sacramento (formerly LaSalle Club) Baseball Hall of Fame. An honor I never imagined… ever. In proper context, my award is unlike the others: for their achievement originated on the ballfield. Instead, mine came from contributions by a scribe's pen instead of a bat or a glove.
Nevertheless, when I received an email from my cousin Mark, the acknowledgement felt terrific. He wrote: “Congrats. Well deserved. To think I went to little league tryouts with a hall of famer.”
He was referring to that one and only day of Pacific Little League tryouts we did together in March 1961. From the tryout, I was picked for the Giants team and Mark… well, he never played a day of Youth Baseball. But at that lone tryout Mark Cardosa did something I never saw again in my twelve years of infield practice.
At the tryout, the coaches segregated the boys by position at their discretion. I recall some twenty or so boys clogging the dirt near me at third base, even more at shortstop, a few less at second. Mark ended up at first base, where there was the fewest number. Also, it was a position probably he had never tried before. Most dads send their boys out to shortstop or maybe third base If the drill is simply to field “grounders.”
When it came to Mark’s turn, he watched as the short stop threw wide of first base. Instead of leaving the bag to catch the ball, my cousin kept his foot on the base, stretched as far as his groin would permit, and when he realized that still was not far enough, in one swift motion he took off his glove with his right hand and held it by the edge where the palm meets thick lacing. He extended his right arm with the glove loosely attached and snagged the errant throw in the pocket of his mitt. Willie Mays would have been proud. As were the coaches at the tryout.
“Hey, good goin’, there, son! Number... sixty-three. See that catch, Barney?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Okay, next at second—comin' to you.”
Sixty years later at his mother’s funeral reception I finally learned why he didn’t play Little League.
After the tryout his parents discovered their home was not located within Pacific Little League’s official boundaries. Hence he wasn’t eligible to play there. I just shook my head; I felt badly for him. Pacific was where I got my start on the diamond and likely was a contributing factor to my HOF induction. My coach those three years in the majors was Charley Schanz, a former Major League pitcher. A big factor, no doubt, in my development.
So, with that admission, Mark filled that sliver of an opening in the memory wall. But it didn’t redress my feeling that somehow he was hosed by the league officials.

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