Ketchikan Little League

In 1976, baseball was a lifeline for me. As soon as the snow on the field behind Kayhi dried out enough for us to walk on without leaving tracks, kids would gather from all over to play. It didn’t matter where we lived, or how much money we had, or if our shoes were cool or our gloves new—we just gathered on the field, and pitched and hit and fielded. It was my playground and the spring training that led up to Little League baseball. 

As a socially inept child with eyes and ears too big for his head and an easy target for the kids who were shaving in 5th grade, baseball was my sanctuary. Baseball was something I was pretty good at, and when I was on the field, I felt like I was someone to be feared. That may be an exaggeration, but not in my head. I loved nothing better than playing baseball—especially playing baseball in Ketchikan. 

I’m not sure why it was so special, but in all the years after I left Ketchikan, I played baseball in all kinds of places, from Anchorage to California and Oregon to Idaho. I even played a few years of minor college ball, but there was no place I ever enjoyed baseball more than when I was playing on the dirt field, with standing water around every base and the rain coming down in sheets, in Ketchikan. 

It was just so Alaska—and tough and meaningful and cool. We played with regular balls that sometimes got so waterlogged that they “thunked” and kind of dribbled towards an infielder, even when struck on the sweet spot of the bat. Our wool uniforms were soaked and our feet wrinkled from wet shoes, but we never complained. Our hats never had proper crowns, and no matter how much we tried to shape them into something resembling a baseball cap, they just kind of melted and molded to our heads. Our hands got cold and the ball was hard to feel, and the crack of the bat was more often the “sting” of the bat, but I would not trade my time playing baseball in Ketchikan for anything. 

In my mind, I remember it feeling like the entire town came out to watch. Everyone from the mayor to the guy working in the cannery came to watch us play. The stands were filled, and the cars lining the left and right field fences always had people in them—especially when it was pouring—and always Grandma Hjorteset down the right field line with her window rolled down, talking to every baseball player that would stop. 

And the baseball was good. I mean really good. We were coached by men who took time out of their lives to teach us the fundamentals and tell us that we were really good at this game. Men like Coach Collins, Galos, Erickson, and Belgin (I know there were others) looked at me and didn’t see a kid who was struggling in school and lacking confidence in life—they looked at me and told me to go out and throw the ball hard, or get a hit, or slide into second no matter how much water was surrounding it. They instilled a confidence in me that I never felt outside of baseball, and that was important to me. 

It seems that most of my memories of Ketchikan seem to be baseball related. I have other memories of fishing and hunting and the 4th of July and fireworks, but the ones that have stuck with me and are most vivid are the ones surrounded by baseball. All my friends played, and as I was writing this piece, I looked through some old newspaper clippings, and as I read the names of the players, memories flooded out of me. 

Mike Johnson, Steve Copeland, Pat Moran, Hugh Montgomery, Will Shewey, Rick Erickson, Mike Hardcastle, Brian Craig, Mike Belgin, Pete Ecklund, Guy Mickel, Max Galos, Jim Hendricks, Mark Smeltzer, Bill Gass, Todd Chapin, Brentt Mackie, Rocky Collins, Frank Bray, and so many others. Every name has at least one memory attached to it, and some names have dozens. It makes me a bit melancholy knowing that some of these young men passed away long before their time. They were all important to me, and to some extent, still are today. 

We fought on the field, but not off. We seemed to keep the rivalry out of our relationships, and a lot of us hung out off the field as well—either fishing or exploring or playing sandlot baseball. I remember hitting rocks with Hugh and spending a lot of time with Guy and his family. Mike Hardcastle lived just up the street and the Collins’ a little farther on, and I remember how kind the Craigs were to me. I sucked at other parts of life, but it didn’t seem to matter to these people. 

My current friends have no idea what it was like playing baseball in a town with almost 200 inches of rain a year. We played on a gravel field, with no grass, and at the beginning of each year, we walked the fields picking the big rocks out of the gravel to keep the bad hops to a minimum. I think I had PTSD from this, since for the rest of my time playing I was always so flinchy when I fielded ground balls. When I tell my friends that I have played games with standing water around each base, with the pitcher looking for all the world like he was stranded on a deserted island, they tell me I’m lying. It’s not a lie, and anyone who has played in Ketchikan is smiling knowingly as they read this. 

When my wife and I visited a few years ago, I took her to the old ball fields. After her initial shock about a field with no grass, she commented on how nice it was that there were covered stands. Almost immediately she realized that most baseball fields don’t need covered stands, because most teams don’t play baseball in the rain. 

My love of baseball began in Ketchikan and has followed me my entire life. I was sitting in a lawn chair, in the sun, watching my grandson start his baseball journey last night, and I realized how much different his time playing will be. I wondered if things would have been different for me if I had played in the sun, on groomed grass fields, with clean, dry uniforms and regulation balls and bats that didn’t sting your hands. I thought about it for about two seconds and realized that even if I had been given the choice, I would always choose Ketchikan baseball. There just isn’t anything like it in the world, and I am so glad to have been a part of it.