Lines

Note: Several months ago, after striking up a friendship with Raoul Cervantes on Facebook, I asked him to consider writing a piece or two about his memories growing up in P'burg.   This post recalling the impact Sonny Skiles had on his life, both in the classroom and at Minch Park, is the first of what I hope will be many such entries here on Parkesburg Today. 

By Raoul Cervantes

In the summers, between the ages of 9 and 15, I spent most of my summer days at the playground, later named Minch Park. Every summer became a new milestone in my life, starting with being able to hit a ball thrown by another person, to eventually being able to control a fastball, so that it would land in the catcher’s mitt right at the batter’s knees, on the inside corner. 

But it was in the summer of 1964, when I was 13 years old, that I learned the fine art of “lining the field.”  In the late afternoon, after the kids finished using the baseball field, older people played baseball and softball.  A league made up of mainly high school students used the field once or twice a week, and a softball league, consisting of four teams, manned by grown ups used the field the rest of the week.  But the games could not be properly played without lines.

My apprenticeship in lining the field came about because the playground supervisor, Mr. Skiles, asked me to help him one afternoon.  Looking back, I am not sure why he did this.  It is possible that he actually needed someone to help him, since stretching out the string, and anchoring it in the ground, was no doubt easier with two people, even if one of them was a kid, with no lining experience.  It is also possible that this was just a logical extension of my relationship with Mr. Skiles.  He was my 8th grade social studies teacher before he became playground supervisor.  It is also possible that Mr. Skiles thought I could use an adult male role model, not that these exact words would have passed through his brain in 1964.  He might have thought I could use some “guidance” or maybe he sensed I needed something that he could offer, whatever that might be.  Nevertheless, one afternoon, he asked me if I wanted to hang around and help him line the field, and I said yes, I would.

Mr. Skiles was a clear voice in my head when I was in junior high school.  He had the most sublet way of motivating me.  I sat at my desk, riveted to his tales of American history in the 8th grade.  He was a captivating storyteller, who seemed to be oblivious to his narrative talents.  I listened to his tales and remembered everything. I was able to always get a solid “B” on his tests, without having to read one page or take any notes at all.  This, I think, caused Mr. Skiles to think I was lazy.

We had this thick 8th grade history book, that I mainly used to keep my pencils and old quizzes that Mr. Skiles graded and gave back to us.  We were assigned pages in this book every day to read and given Conestoga notebooks, with the light brown, covers, which we were to fill with notes, based on our reading.  All year long, I  never read any of the pages, nor took any notes.  Of course, I knew that one day, Mr. Skiles would collect the notebooks and see that I had not done my homework.  But, like the day I would die, or any other unpleasant event that occurred in a future exceeding the current week, I kept myself in complete denial.

One week, in May, Mr. Skiles announced that he would be collecting our notebooks and grading them for our work for the year.  That week, I worked for about an hour, writing notes, filling three pages, until I realized my attempt was completely futile, and quit.  It was then that Mr. Skiles said those words to me that I would never forget, “Gary, you will never go to college. You are too lazy.”  I wasn’t upset or angry, I just took it as a bit of knowledge that Mr. Skiles was sharing, and since he went to college himself, he would know.  Years later, I recalled that bit of advice, when I actually did go to college. But, Mr. Skiles was not one for sugar coating the truth, no new age, self esteem words of encouragement, just the simple truth, “You are just too lazy to go to college.”  So, I took that to mean that if I wasn’t so lazy, I could go to college.  He was right.

The opportunity to help Mr. Skiles line the field offered me a chance at redemption.  This was my moment to show him that I was not lazy, that I could finish the job, that I could do whatever it took, to line the field.  So, I often, during that summer, in the afternoon, went with Mr. Skiles, with the white lime, with that little lining machine, and the string, and the peg to anchor the string into the ground.  I held the peg, to stretch the string, to make a perfectly straight line, that we could trace, with the lime machine, to make a beautiful, white line on the grass and infield dirt.

The field needed to be lined, no matter how important the game.  The lines made the game possible, and the quality of the lines were important.  Every game deserved clean, well formed lines.  This was another lesson I took away from that job.  Sometimes it is not our game, and it may not seem important at first, but may later be seen as critical.  As people who lined the field, we had our own responsibilities.  The teams played baseball, we lined.

After we lined the field, we put away the equipment, and went home.  Later, that afternoon, after watching Mr. Ed, of which Mr. Skiles let me know, in no uncertain words, was a show that insulted his intelligence, I would return to the playground and watch the older kids or softball teams play and run down the field, down the lines I had helped draw, beautiful white lines.