It was a typical Sunday afternoon in July — hazy, hot, and humid. Church services were over before noon, Sunday dinners were on the table by two, and by mid-afternoon people sat on their front porches listening to the final innings of a Pirates baseball game as they sipped cups of coffee or iced tea and ate slices of a fresh fruit pie.
Mom usually sat on the glider, still clad in her kitchen work clothes — a red-and-white floral apron. Dad always would lean back in the red, metal porch chair and, as he rocked back and forth, we all watched and waited for the extended ash from his Lucky Strike to drop. In the middle of a hot afternoon, Grandpap Soulerin’s only concession to the heat was to remove his suit coat. He still had grey wool slacks, matching vest, and a white shirt with stiff cellulose collar, a tie, and suspenders. He looked much like Connie Mack ready to come out of the dugout at the start of a doubleheader at Shibe Park.
Grandpap Soulerin
Grandpap’s stories were both humorous and thought-provoking. Born in Marseilles, France in 1870, he came to New York in 1888 and finally settled in Smoke Run in 1892. He would speak of the home he made for his family and the garden he prepared annually that provided fresh fruits and vegetables for his family. He never believed in using credit to make purchases, and he held “company stores” in contempt.
But no matter how informative or interesting the current topics of discussion, Grandpap inevitably would change to a subject that caused the hair on the back of my dad’s neck to stand up. He complained about the weather (couldn’t grow good wine grapes), work (mine owners treated men like slaves), medicine (cost too much), and politics. He didn’t like Roosevelt, and blamed him for not getting involved in the war in Europe and providing military support earlier. Since we had a serviceman’s star hanging in our front window, complaints about U.S. involvement in the World War didn’t go over well.
After a half hour or so, Dad would get tired of the complaints. He’d flick the ashes from a final Lucky, get up from the red chair, and walk around the side porch toward the stables. As he turned the corner, we sometimes could hear his fading voice murmur, “If he doesn’t like it in this country, why in the h— doesn’t he go back to….”
The Yankees at Shibe Park
Although his youth was spent in southern France, somewhere along the line he developed a fierce passion for baseball. He could quote batting and pitching statistics for virtually every roster player on the Pirates, Phillies, Athletics, Giants, Dodgers, and Yankees as well as many of the better-known players on the remaining ten major-league teams.
Mom paused at the door, looked at Grandpap, and said, “Why don’t you tell the boys about the time you went to Philadelphia to see that Ruth fellow play baseball?” Instantly, his demeanor changed. His padded wicker chair creaked as he leaned forward, smiled, and motioned for Ken and I to come closer.
“The Philadelphia Athletics were a good team when I saw them play — not like now,” he said. His eyes twinkled as he regaled us with stories of his first trip to Shibe Park. The Yankees were in town, and the atmosphere was electric. Arrival to the park at 21st and Lehigh on that Sunday afternoon was standing-room only on a trolley from just about anywhere in the city.
Being a Philadelphia Athletics fan, my brother’s eyes lit up as Grandpap spoke of the old players like ‘Lefty’ Grove, Jimmy Foxx, Mickey Cochrane, ‘Rube’ Wahlberg, Jimmy Dykes, and Alex Metzler. The invading men in pinstripes included the likes of Herb Pennock, Lou Gehrig, Fred Merkle, Earle Combs, Benny Bengough, Tony Lazzeri, Herb McQuaid, and “that Ruth fellow.”
Our mouths opened in awe as he described batting practice and an unofficial home run contest that took place among Gehrig, Cochrane, Foxx, and “that Ruth fellow.” As he spoke, he pulled a small pouch from his right vest pocket. From the other pocket came a packet of cigarette papers. His story continued as he deftly made a crease and distributed a small amount of Bull Durham onto the paper. During the contest, baseballs were flying out of the park with such frequency that he wondered if there would be any left to play the game.
After an hour or so of pre-game activities, the man in blue yelled, “Play ball!” and the game was underway. Ruth hit a couple of deep flies to straightaway center that were outs. Foxx put one out of the park in the middle innings, and Lazzeri made a couple of sparkling infield plays. When it was all over, Grandpap’s team had won 5 to 4, and he came away with a new favorite player — but it wasn’t that “Ruth fellow.” After the game, he watched the Yankees first baseman talk and laugh with the Philadelphia fans. It was then that he decided Lou Gehrig was the finest gentleman ever to play this wonderful sport. This man’s team had just lost a close game in a rival city, but because of the way Gehrig treated the opposition fans, that made Grandpap a lifelong fan of a game he never played.
VFW Game at the Athletic Park
At five-thirty or so, Uncle Paul arrived with a half gallon of “White House” ice cream. There was a game at six o’clock at the Athletic Park. The Tyrone VFW was playing a team from Houtzdale, and since Grandpap was from over that way, Uncle Paul came to take whomever wanted to go.
We drove through town and out Columbia Ave. so slowly I thought we’d never get there. The Buick had been pampered for nearly fifteen years, and no ballgame was going to change that. When we reached 23rd St., there was a decision to be made: Shall we go up the rutted, dirt hill to the park or shall we go the longer way around and enter off Adams Ave.? Adams was a better route for the car, so in we came past the third-base side past the cinder track, and around the backstop toward first.
There were a few people there to see the game — mostly family and friends of the players. We parked the car at an angle in a spot between home plate and first so that Grandpap could sit inside the car to watch the game, if he wanted. Ken and I sat on the front bumper with the job of intercepting any errant balls before they reached the Buick.
Players from both teams seemed to know each other as they talked and joked prior to the start. Once the first pitch was thrown, however, the competitive juices flowed and friendships were put on hold. Through it all, Grandpap kept his eyes glued on the field of play — never raising his voice. He seemed very respectful and appreciative of the pitching masterpieces he was observing on both sides. A strikeout to end the sixth inning prompted him to clap his hands softly a couple of times and say, “Very nicely done!”
The game concluded just as dusk came over the field. Our VFW team had prevailed by a score of 1-0 on two fewer hits than the visiting team. After brief team meetings at their respective benches, the two teams intermingled near home plate and picked up their pregame conversations. As we prepared to leave for home and our waiting ice-cream dessert, we could overhear a couple of Tyrone players invite the Houtzdale nine to the VFW for a friendly beer. The game was hard-fought and the competition fierce, but in the end these men were still friends above all else.
As we headed toward Adams, Grandpap spoke to no one in particular but for all to hear, “You know, I think Mr. Gehrig would have been proud of those young men.”
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