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“You and I got something going on,” growled Woodward, who with his size, stare and wiry goatee resembles a biker with a fungo bat. “But your boy is always welcome in our dugout.”
That would be my 11-year-old son, Easton, his name inspired by the athletic equipment company and who spent his second consecutive summer as a Post 22 batboy. He also added the Upper Valley Nighthawks of the New England Collegiate Baseball League to his clientele, packing about 45 total games into a two-month span.
There were broiling afternoons with the Legion team. There were late nights at White River Junction’s Maxfield Complex. There was travel to games in southern New Hampshire, western Massachusetts and eastern Maine.
There was a tired and dirty batboy.
I looked on from my lawn chair with sentimental envy. At a little older than my son is now, I held the same job for the Dartmouth and Hartford Post 26 baseball teams, along with a semi-pro outfit known as the Twin State Tigers. I spent countless hours in the Red Rolfe Field dugouts and got to take occasional day trips with the Big Green, sometimes lying in the bus’ overhead luggage compartment when there weren’t enough seats.
I was a lousy baseball player, and Easton’s strengths lean more toward intelligence. But almost as good as being a sports standout is being an auxiliary member of the team. I was allowed to shag flies during batting practice, take occasional cuts at the plate and hang out in the bullpen. An only child, I got a taste of having older brothers, absorbing bits of wisdom and blushing when asked if I had a girlfriend.
I remember the genuine friendship of Dartmouth players like Brian Conroy, Todd Twachtmann and John Hommeyer and of head coach Mike Walsh. I can still hear the delighted belly laughs of Post 26 manager Chuck Hunnewell, who was later my gym teacher at Hanover High. So many casual acts of kindness by men who could have been aloof or dismissive to a youngster with braces and a bad haircut.
Although Easton quickly learned that what happens in the dugout stays in the dugout, I could tell he was having the same sort of fun. Post 22’s Chase Hussey treated him like a younger brother, and Nighthawks reliever Joe Levasseur developed a multi-part, high-five ritual they’d perform after victories.
There’s an art to fitting in among jocks, and Easton didn’t make many missteps in his size 4 cleats.
What most fascinated me, however, was how the kid won over the managers. Woodward, a former Major Leaguer now in his 50s, is gruffness personified, and even his older players tread carefully and shoot him sidelong glances. Still, there he and Easton would be, giving each other grief and cracking up over some private observation.
Upper Valley Nighthawks manager Nick Cenatiempo, another big and intense fellow, is approaching 30 and has a more brooding persona. His relationship with Easton seemed to be something of a stress reliever, a way to remind himself and his players that summer baseball should be fun. The two often sat in close proximity, wordless for long stretches but content in each other’s company.
As enjoyable as the experience was for Easton, however, I think the season’s main benefit came in tiny life lessons. Praised by players and coaches for his hustle and valued for his good cheer, he developed an obvious pride in hard, upbeat work. It legitimized his presence and made him more than a 4-foot-8 mascot.
Post 22 assistant coach Carlos Fleming would dispatch him into the underbrush behind the Lebanon High diamond to hunt for foul balls. Cenatiempo put him in charge of rubbing up the dozens of new ones needed for play, then ferrying them to the home plate umpire as needed. At each outing, there were also somewhere between 30 and 60 bats to be plucked from near home plate.
For a kid who’d just as soon slouch on the couch with a video game in his hand, this was good stuff. He also got a first-hand look at how serious athletes prepare for games and how they handle success and failure. Perhaps most importantly, Easton learned how to inconspicuously shrink into the background when the dugout’s mood turned dark.
By midseason, the bat boy was worming his way deeper into team culture. He was invited to deliver a postgame speech to the huddled Post 22 squad, and his summation produced laughter and a return engagement after the next contest. With the Nighthawks, he now doffed his batting helmet and held it aloft at home plate for a celebratory bump with those of home run hitters Zach Canada and Charlie Concannon.
Sensing that it was now acceptable, Easton regularly took his place along the foul line with the players for the playing of the national anthem. During Legion action, he wore a hat and shirt thoughtfully provided by Post 22 business manager Pete St. Pierre. For Nighthawks games in White River Junction, it was a T-shirt bearing the number 00 and homemade by his mother.
Washed after almost every use, the garment’s letters, numerals and stripes have faded a bit. There’s more blue and yellow fabric paint lying around, however.
If Easton doesn’t hit a major growth spurt and the Nighthawks concur, we plan on freshening up the colors and sending him back out in it next June, ready for another Batboy Summer.
Tris Wykes can be reached at twykes@vnews.com or 603-727-3227.