SIZZLING FAST BALLS AND HOME RUNS

    Normal kids play four years of Little League before moving on to Pony League, but since I started so young I was fortunate enough to play five.      

    Dad was as anxious to get me started in Little League as I was. After tryouts at age 8, I was selected as a player on the Elks Club team.  I used Dad's old five-finger mitt with no web pocket -- a museum piece now and close to it then.

Old-fashioned five-finger baseball glove.

    My parents didn't have much money as Dad was just starting out at BYU, but he dug deep and found enough cash to go mitt shopping. There was a small sporting goods store across the street from the Scera Theater in Orem. That's where we found the "Nokona." Sixty years later I still can smell the new leather!

Nokona Baseball mitt with its "Indian head" label.

   There was a ritual that went along with the new glove. First, oil the leather, then put a baseball tight in the pocket and tie it with rope overnight. Play with it the next day and repeat the process nightly.

    Every once in a while a kid would come along who was the size of a full grown man by age 12. A monster of a kid who could throw a 70-mile-per-hour fast ball from 35 feet away. Such was the case in one of our Elks games. While waiting on deck to hit, the biggest fear was you would pee your pants from fright right there in front of everyone. 

    Well, back in those days we didn't have fancy batting helmets. A U -shaped cardboard reinforced ear guard over your temple was about it. At eight years of age, I had a skinny frame and was barely taller than my bat, as I faced down this Goliath. I could hit the ball, but it rarely made it past the infield. Determined to hit against the giant I stepped into the batter's box. His windup was slow, reaching back for all his whip-like power he let it fly. That's all I can remember before the white light and the pain in my head. It was a good thing our baseball diamond was right next to the Provo City Hospital. It turned out to be my first concussion. Dad carried me off the field that day, but I was back for the next game rip roaring and ready to hit again.

      Our Elks Club team rarely won a game. Virgil Carter, one of BYU's first great quarter backs, played short stop. He was so upset that we kept losing he cried after each game.  He wasn't a cry baby. Virgil was just so competitive that he cried out of frustration! 

Francis in his Utah Office Supply team uniform. 1956.

    The next year Dad and a group of fathers in the Wasatch School area organized a league on our side of town. My Dad was the coach for our Utah Office Supply Team. Fathers and their boys dragged and raked the dirt field, getting it ready for our first season. Soon we had nice dug outs, a fancy backstop, a score board and a real home run fence. It took a season or two before we actually had a grass outfield. I was eleven before I finally knocked one out of the park!

    My final year in Little League was a record setter. I hit twelve home runs, two of them Grand Slams. I could have hit more, but some of the opposing coaches thought it was safer to walk me than let me hit. What a bummer! 

    I had spent most of my Little League career as a short stop scooping up hard hit balls, but as a 12-year-old it was time to convince Dad that I was also a great pitcher. I would corner him when he came home from work and insist that he catch for me on the side of the house.

Ash Avenue house with its white picket fence before Francis and his wild pitches destroyed it.

    I had three pitches: a fast ball, a very fast ball, and a super fast ball. My goal in practicing with Dad was learning to control my wild pitches and put them in the strike zone. "Fast and Wild" was my middle name. The broken boards on Dad's white picket fence were proof of my early wild days.

    Each game I would pitch both teams would wonder who would show up: "Fast and Wild" or "Fast and in the Strike Zone." In one game I hit the lead off batter in the forearm. He walked to first base whimpering and rubbing his arm. The second batter took a blistering fastball in the leg. It took him a little longer getting to first base, limping all the way. And  my "super" fast ball nailed the next batter square in the back as he turned to get away.      

    Hearing his son cry out in pain his dad leaped the fence and rushed the pitcher's mound screaming, "He's trying to kill my boy!" Lucky for me Chuck Peterson, Kent's dad and the League President, headed him off before he could do much damage. While being held back by Chuck, the father kept yelling, "He's doing it on purpose. He's trying to hit the batters!" Dad firmly replied, "He couldn't hit them if he tried. He's too wild!" Needless to say, I was replaced as pitcher and went back to playing short stop. I wonder if it was my innocent smirk that got that father so riled up? I can't see myself, you know!

Northeast All-Stars team. Max Rogers coach. Provo Daily Herald article, August 6. 1957.

    Dad's Utah Office Supply team won first place every year he coached. The winning coach was honored by making him the coach for the League's All Star Team. The championship All Star games were played on a perfectly manicured field at Pioneer Park in Provo. A large crowd was there to cheer their boys on.   

    By the end of the season I had my fast ball under control and pitched the first two innings of our All Star game. When our team came up to bat I was the lead off hitter. Watching their pitcher warm up I got my timing in sync. Driving the first pitch to deep center field I thought the ball was gone, but it hit the fence three inches from the top. I ended up on second base with a "stand up" double. As an eleven- and 12-year-old, I made the All Star Team but we never made it out of the State Competition. 

     Later when my brothers played, Dad's All Star Team went to the Little League World Series in Santa Monica, California. They took second place, losing to Japan in the final game. Now that was a big deal! Losing wasn't in Dad's nature yet he looked back on this game as one of his proudest moments as a coach. Win or lose, he played every boy who made the trip. It's something they would remember as long as they lived!

The Rogers family Little League team: Joel, Russ, Paul and Francis.

    I can't say enough about how lucky we were to have a Mom and Dad who supported our interests! Dad coached all four boys through Little League, and Mom was right there sitting in the hot sun, keeping the official score books for our team during the regular seasons.  She stuck it out, sunburned, chapped lips and all. She was a real trooper!

    Even before they were old enough to play, my three younger brothers were at the games. Paul, Russ and Joel rotated as bat boys and equipment managers while my older sister Kay jumped around in her cheerleader outfit jazzing up the crowd. One day while Mom was busy keeping score and Dad was coaching the team, my little brothers were playing in the family car above the field. Their assignment was to honk the horn when good things happened. They accidentally bumped the gear shift into neutral, which sent the car careening down the embankment. The car miraculously stopped just yards from the grand stands. It was something other than a well hit ball that brought the crowd to its feet that day!