Don't Slide into Second

Don’t Slide into Second

Del La Salle College was governed by the Institute of Brothers of Christian Schools. Their Catholic religious order was founded in France in 1679. They arrived in Montreal in 1837 and 5 Brothers started the school in Toronto in 1851.

Their original Del La Salle school building still stands on Adelaide St. in downtown. But the property most people recognize today is on Avenue Rd. just south of St. Clair. 

The present-day property includes a Gothic Revival mansion which can be seen from the street. It sits on 12 acres of prime downtown Toronto real estate which was purchased by the Christian Brothers in 1931. 

Even though I was the last child in a family of ten my parents must have been very motivated to have me taught by the Brothers and send me to this private, boys school.

It was expensive.

I was 7 years old in 1953 and started at the school in grade two. I certainly didn't fit into the school's wealthy demographic. Some of my classmates were driven to school in block-long black limousines with a chauffeur -- they'd be double parked every morning while I got off the Avenue Road bus.

The school had a very unusual special feature. 

A nod to elitism perhaps  ... a smoking room for those students in grade 9 and above who needed a mid-morning break. When walking by that room it was common to see a grade 9'er smoking a pipe and mimicking the famous crooner of the time, Bing Crosby.

My classmates were well connected.

One guy's father owned a huge drug company.

One guy's father was a diamond cutter and one a Maple Leaf Gardens' Silver Seven member on the Leafs' board of directors. Another guy's father was the president of 

a bank.

I was a regular guest of one classmate whose family were members of Toronto's most elite, Anglo Saxon Rich & Famous rec room, The Granite Club. We'd spend a whole day on a Saturday skating, playing billiards and retiring to the dining room

for lunch. No cash.

My 10-year old host signed for everything.

Then there were the other kids like me, normal.  One kid used to slowly run a sharpened pencil up his nose so he'd sneeze and make everyone laugh when the teacher wasn't looking. One kid sat beside a window for proper light while he drew copies of the Dennis-the-Menace cartoon character - his renderings were exact replicas -- 64 years later we're still pals. We also had several South American borders from wealthy families -- imagine sending your 6-7-8 year old, who is just learning English, thousands of miles away, where it snowed, for their education?

We also had one black kid. One, in a school with a population of about 1,000.

It was 1953 Toronto.

The school was sports crazy. We had our own full-sized football field on the property that produced several CFL and US College players. And in the mid-1950s the school built its own hockey rink. 

It was such a big deal that the official opening was covered by a sports magazine that was just starting out, Sports Illustrated. 

We had the best sports facilities in the city -- probably the country.

I was into it -- sports.

I'd get to school early so I could bang a puck around and skate on our new rink.

I was on the tackle football team where I learned how to cross-body-block. I was always in the gym bugging our Athletic Director, Nobby Wirkowski, who was also the Grey Cup-winning Toronto Argo football coach. 

We played baseball every afternoon on the campus during lunch hour. I loved the smell of the grass that surrounded the infield. My school uniform was always a mess after every game -- covered in dirt from sliding into bases. My baseball style was pre-Pete Rose who'd said, "I'm not in the game until my uni is dirty." I was a good player. My favourite team was the Brooklyn Dodgers. I knew every player. I knew what they had for lunch. I loved d'bums, especially Jackie and "Duke". When I played baseball

I transformed. I was them.

One day my home-room teacher, Brother Richard, announced we were going to play a baseball game against another school. 

This was big. We'd only ever played against each other. This would be against another Catholic school downtown, St. Mary's. As we sat there, stunned by our good fortune, Brother Richard announced the starting line-up.

I was to play shortstop. I was too young to understand the importance of the pitcher or catcher position. For me, "short" was the only position on the field. "It's the best athlete" "It's the guy who runs the infield" "It's the guy everyone counts on to make the special play" or so I thought. 

I couldn't sleep that night.

My mother told me she'd found me standing on the bed in the middle of the night swinging at imaginary pitches, while sound asleep.

I was worn-out thinking about the game. 

I became obsessed. I had to justify the Brother's selection of me as his shortstop. 

I decided I must have baseball cleats!

If I was going to be my best and 

perform at the highest level, I needed cleats.

I had to make sure my performance had no miss-steps.

My feet had to be able to grab the turf confidently. 

I had to be like a pro. Be like a Dodger.

I very carefully planned my cleats discussion with my mother. My formal presentation included a description of how important her son was to his teammates. How much faith the Brother had put in me to be my best and how I couldn't disappoint him. After all, he was a Christian Brother.

I may have taken 3 different approaches with her before she finally screamed “ENOUGH!"

By the time I'd concluded all my pitches to her it was too late to go to a store. 

She promised we'd go to the sports store on the next night, the night before 

the big game.

We went to four stores before we finally found a pair of baseball cleats to fit a 

10-year old.

They were fabulous. Black, shiny Kangaroo leather.

With these, I'd blow-by people. My steel cleats would eat-up the dirt in the infield.

I'd be able to take an extra base at-will. My new cleats were so sharp they'd dig 

into the canvas on each base, I'd rounded and help propel me to the next one.

The two-tone pro laces helped to make them fit like they were made-for-me. 

You know.

I couldn't sleep.

I carefully wrapped them in the original package and put them at the foot of the bed so I didn't forget them in the morning.

No imaginary game that night. I couldn't sleep. Morning took forever.

I carried them to school in their special bag. I couldn't wait to show them to my friends and teammates. Even they were impressed. 

We had a cloakroom at the back of the class. We each had our own hook.

If for some reason you had to leave class, it was 1 finger to pee, 2 fingers for the other thing and 3 fingers to go to the back of the room to get something from the cloakroom.

After morning prayers and 10 minutes into class, I shot-up3 fingers.

The Brother nodded it was ok. He didn't know the reason ... I had to visit my shoes

in the cloakroom.

I looked at my hook. My shoes were gone.

How could this happen? Who would do this? I screamed. I was on the floor in a puddle of tears. When the Brother arrived, I explained through sobs that someone had stolen my baseball cleats.

What happened next wasn't good. 

The Brother insisted on knowing who had stolen the cleats.

Nobody acknowledged.

Then he said ... "If nobody confesses ... there will be no game." ... my teammates exhaled. This wouldn't be good for anyone.

Actually, I can't remember what happened next.

I was too upset. Somebody may have admitted to the crime or maybe they just reappeared on my hook. Anyways, my cleats were back, I was happy.

We boarded the bus for our baseball game against our St. Mary's opponents.  The bus ride was special. We were special. We were going to show how good we were to a downtown team.

We departed the bus like pros. We had our green Del La Salle blazers, our grey flannel pants and our sculptured windsor-knot neckties that Frank Sinatra would have been envious of. 

We were directed to the change room.

I dressed into my baseball jersey then pulled on my beautiful cleats. There was no mirror. It didn't matter.  I knew I looked like one of my Dodgers.

It was game time. We exited the school's dressing room area on a beautiful, sunny afternoon at the back of their school property.

The baseball diamond was before us.

But, it was bad.

Very bad.

I'd never seen a baseball diamond like this before.

The foul lines starting at home plate were laid

very sharp all the way to the outfield fences.

The three bases were painted-on ... not fluffy canvas covered squares. 

The entire baseball diamond, infield and outfield was completely covered in asphalt.

No grass - no dirt. 

All black, shinny, volcanic-hard-rock asphalt.

Don't slide into second.