Snakes, Stumps, Bones, Bad Hops And Fun For 'Three-Fingers' On His Field Of Dreams

Mark Stewart ready to throw in a Vintage Base Ball game. Mark is finding a way to enjoy the game we played as kids. How many of you played on an over-grown grass field you had to mow yourselves? Photo by Keystone Base Ball Club (more photos at end of story).

By Mark Stewart

As a bona fide Geezer Jock closing in on age 65, I have developed a keen appreciation
of the saying “the older you are, the faster you ran when you were a kid.”

I have never professed anything like raw speed at any stage of my athletic career, but I had quick reflexes, better than average hand-eye coordination and, until age 35, I could dunk a
basketball backwards, forwards and every which way at the generously listed height of
6’2”.

In my very early 20s, I played with such impenetrable confidence that I once
criticized 50-something Bob Cousy’s passing when we were teamed together in a
pickup game in New York City.

The day I could no longer rattle the rim, however, I quit. It wasn’t fun anymore.

Around the same time that I dropped basketball, I pretty much gave up playing all
sports, throwing myself with equal vigor into parenthood and work. Fifteen years passed
before I rose from my athletic slumber. At the age of 50, with one daughter in college
and the other away in boarding school, I suddenly had time on my hands and I knew
exactly what I wanted to do: hit, field and throw.

The initial phase of my baseball career ended three days into freshman year at Duke
University, in the late summer of 1978. Enos Slaughter had been the coach when I
applied, and I was psyched to play for him, but a heart attack opened the way for his
replacement, who I did not connect with. The fact I was competing for the same position
as future major leaguer Bob Brower, as well as the son of Hall of Famer Larry Doby, had something to do with it, too.

Fast-forward three-plus decades. I found myself playing shortstop for a 50-and-over
softball team in the summer…and hitting, fielding and throwing like no time had passed.

The following year I joined a league dominated by guys in their 20s and 30s, played a
mean third base and helped my team reach the championship series three times in six
seasons. Two moves and COVID cost me four years on the diamond. But in 2022, at age 61, I landed in baseball/softball heaven, otherwise known as South Central Pennsylvania.

By 2024, I was playing on four teams: Over-50 and over-60 softball, over-40 baseball
(shortstop in all three) and third base on a Vintage Base Ball team. Come the cold
weather, I played pickup softball for three hours twice a week on a domed field that had
been abandoned by the US women’s field hockey team. I’ll bet I played close to 100
games.

Does everything hurt? You bet. Am I having the time of my life? You know it.

I play as hard and as well as I ever have, with two exceptions: I don’t dive for grounders
in the hole anymore and I don’t slide headfirst anymore. Everything else is on the
table. My footwork is probably better than it ever was, my arm is still strong, and there is
nowhere on earth I am more relaxed and content than when I am stationed on the left
side of the infield.

My favorite team is the Vintage nine, the Keystone Base Ball Club of Harrisburg. We
play by the rules of 1864, with old-time uniforms, funky wooden bats, and no gloves.

Everyone goes by a 19th century nickname. I am Three-Fingers, thanks to the two
gnarled digits on my right hand. My teammates include Admiral, Orator, Bullet, Buns,
Stumbles and Shags.

Vintage Base Ball (always two words) is like a Civil War re-enactment, only with real bullets. Indeed, there is nothing pretend about a sizzling grass-cutter or a 350-foot bomb when you’ve got nothing between your hand and the ball except your skin.

The rules of the game have evolved somewhat since 1864. The two main differences
are the “fair-foul” and “bound” rules. A batted ball that hits in fair territory is consider fair
no matter where it goes from there. This is a nightmare for the third baseman (usually
me), who must chase down grounders that sometimes skitter into the crowd. The bound
rule was eliminated in 1865. Prior to that, any batted ball caught after one bounce was
an out. Until you have watched or played in an 1864 game, it is impossible to
understand how this impacts the defensive calculus of every fielder.

Why catch a pop-up or high fly ball in the air when you can let it bounce and gently
settle into your hands? Well, we play in open, uneven, unmanicured fields—including,
literally, the battlefields of Gettysburg—and there is about a five percent chance the ball
will bounce where you expect it to.

The ball itself is about the size and weight of a standard hardball, with lemon-peel
stitching and slightly more give after it’s been knocked around for a couple of innings. It
is delivered by the pitcher underhand at varying speeds, but often slower is better for the defense, as the batter must generate his own power.

The catcher stands well behind home base until there is a runner on first, because base-stealing is common. Needless to say, a powerful arm is required at this position, and also quick hands to corral those one-bounce foul tips. I was pressed into service as catcher in both ends of a doubleheader once and had a blast.

There are around 400 Vintage Base Ball clubs playing in the United States right now,
some in leagues but most independently. Players typically range in age from their mid
20s to their late 40s, with plenty more on both ends of the spectrum, including yours
truly. The schedule typically includes a dozen or more doubleheaders and a four-game
tournament, or two.

With rare exceptions, sportsmanship of every kind is on constant display, but teams do play to win.

Last weekend, the Keystones played in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, on the site of an
old battlefield. We squeezed out a pair of last-inning victories over the Gettysburg
Generals (17–16) and Middletown Maulers (15–14), both mild upsets.

The field had recently been created out of a tangle of dense brush, power-mowed to a height of two inches. The woody stumps of the decapitated bushes made for some epic bad hops, as did the bones of whatever animals had died there over the years.

I went 5-for-7 and stole a base that made a difference late in the second game—four of the five hits were clean singles, the other an infield hit that bounced in three different directions.

In our final at bat, a disturbingly large snake slithered across home plate, disappeared
into the hay-bale backstop we had set up, and may or may not have found its way into
the old wooden barrel that we use to hold our bats—stopping the game for several
minutes, tipping some momentum in our favor, and reminding everyone that what was,
on that day, a crude baseball diamond, was the once and future home of an impressive
collection of indigenous fauna.

Mark Stewart is a sportswriter with millions of words to his credit in print and online. His company, Upper Case Editorial, runs the njsports.com web site and has produced more than 30 non-fiction books on pro football, basketball and soccer since 2023. Among the many talented writers and editors with whom Mark has worked is GeezerJockNews.com publisher Ray Glier.   

Photo by Courtney Dutton.

Photo by Courtney Dutton.

The game ball. The only game ball. Courtesy of KBBC.

The bat boy. Courtesy of KBBC.