A group photo of my Fall Creek Little League team from the north side of Indianapolis in the summer of 1960 evokes a cavalcade of memories and reflections. It gives the lie to any assertion that group photographs, as a genre, are stiff or staid or a matter of meaningless formality. This one helps me to recapture the social world I inhabited at the age of 10. It also conjures my father, the team’s coach, at a much younger period (age 40) than I generally picture him. And it deepens my appreciation of a question he posed to me a few years before he died.
I received the photo just a few years ago from Gordon Dunne, front-row, right. Gordon continues to live in Indianapolis and is one of a scant few high school friends with whom I have maintained contact. He sent me a copy of the picture after reading about Dad’s passing. I was not a kid who easily made close friends while growing up—often preferring to rely on my brother Leon’s more developed social skills and tagging along with his friends or relying on our mother to invite over kids whom we knew by way of their parents. I rarely invited over peers that I had gotten to know independently; Gordon was one of those few. He had come to know and admire both of my parents and remained aware of them as he stayed in Indianapolis. He fondly recalled playing on the Yanks, the team that my Dad coached.
Gordon’s family, like mine, were registered Democrats—which was not commonplace in my neighborhood or among the broader population of the affluent white suburbs of Indianapolis. While coaching the Yanks, my Dad once came home from a meeting of all the team coaches to report that another coach had been extolling the virtues of Richard Nixon—then the Vice President and the GOP candidate for President. “What I really like about him,” Dad quoted him as saying, “he reminds me of that Senator McCarthy.” This was six years after the anti-communist witch-hunting senator from Wisconsin had been censured by the U.S. Senate. Dad, a lawyer and founding member of the Indiana Civil Liberties Union, said he was so flabbergasted that he didn’t say anything. But political kinship wasn’t the reason for my bond with Gordon. I was drawn to his easygoing personality and his sense of humor.
One of the first jokes Gordon told me and other boys was during recess in third grade or so. A woman is riding a bus and has a bad headache and is searching desperately in her pocketbook for her aspirins, but having no luck finding them. “My aspirins! My aspirins!” she calls out loudly. (But in Indiana, we pronounced the word aspirin as assburn.) The bus driver calls out, “Lady, if your ass burns, stick it out the window and let it cool off!” This was a really risqué joke for me at around age 9. I always remembered it, but I’m positive I never told it to anyone.
My brother Leon and I are the two boys with glasses on the left of the front row; I am on the end, with one knee up and one down. This team would mark Leon’s final year in Little League. Note the ball in his left hand: he was a left-handed pitcher and—truly unusual—a left-handed second-baseman. (It’s much quicker to make the throw to first when you are throwing across your body from the right side.) He would become ineligible upon turning 13 in 1961. In contrast, this was my first year in the Majors. I was just one year behind Leon in school, but my December birth date put me two years behind him so far as Little League was concerned. I was 10 in the summer of 1960 and would get to play two more baseball seasons before moving up from Little League to C League.
There was a rule, at least in the Fall Creek Little League, that Major League teams should carry two ten-year-olds on their rosters. The two on our team were Tom Bushman and I. Tom is in the front-row beside Gordon. There were other teammates (including Gordon) who were going into sixth grade like me at Fall Creek School, but they were already 11 and would have just one more year of eligibility.
Tom, like me, had an older brother on the team. His brother Bill is in the back row, with his hat obscuring just a bit of my Dad’s left cheek. Dad was concerned early in the season that Tom had a weak arm and wanted him to be able to throw the ball in from the outfield. For decades, Dad was fond of quoting Tom’s response when he suggested that Tom should throw the ball around at home with his brother Bill—get some extra workouts in to supplement our time together as a team. “Why, Mr. Fink,” Tom asked, “you think Bill needs the practice?”
Two decades later, Tom and his wife would buy a house on North Park Drive just down the street from my parents. He would be one of the air traffic controllers to go on strike fighting for safer and saner conditions in the air traffic towers in 1981, and thus he would be one of the casualties of the early months of the Reagan Presidency. Bill made a complete career transition, opening a carpet-cleaning business. From what I heard, be ran the business with integrity and was much happier without the stress of the airport tower. But in 1960, we knew him only as our best pitcher. Tom and I, as the younger brothers and the two 10-year-olds, mostly got into the lineup only a few innings per game, and mostly played in the outfield, But Dad gave me a few innings at first-base, my favored position, from time to time.
I remember Gordon’s personality off the field but in truth, I do not retain any good visual images of his conduct on the diamond.
In the middle of the front row is Jeff Kuhn, a kid in my grade who was 11. The smallest member of the team but also very athletic, you could always count on Jeff to give the maximal effort at all times. He almost never struck out. And if he got on base, he could steal.
Paul Ford is on the right end of the back row. He was in my grade, often in my class at school, and also lived in my neighborhood. He was our starting center fielder. This photo shows him when he was sort of slow and strong and a little beefy; in seventh grade, his hormonal changes would turn into a track star who had no extra pounds and could outrun anybody. He would also be the first boy I knew to “go steady,” and I think it lasted all the way from seventh grade through the end of high school.
Our catcher, Brian Dixon, is on the left of the back row. Speaking in a high-pitched, almost squeaky voice, he would maintain a running commentary while receiving the pitches. “Pitcher catcher, pitcher catcher, pitcher catcher!” Meaning—don’t even think about the batter; it’s just you and me.
I don’t remember much about Brian but I do recall that his father spoke in some kind of accent, perhaps from Scotland or Wales. His father stunned me by saying that, even in the summertime, Brian had to be up by 6:30 every morning. I’m not sure if they had animals to feed or what, but most of us had the luxury to sleep later than that during summer vacation.
Next to Brian Dixon is one of our 12-year-olds, Eric Filippo. I think he was our starting first baseman. In between Bill Bushman and Paul Ford are two similarly looking boys with blondish coloring whom I cannot recognize. However, I know that one of them was named Don Scotten, and I believe he played third base. Since I haven’t named a shortstop, the other boy may have been our shortstop when Bill Bowman pitched (and he may also have played second base when Leon pitched.) I am quite sure that Bill Bowman was the starting shortstop when he wasn’t on the mound.
This brings me to that conversation I had with Dad a few years before he died. It was so unusual for him to ask for help in remembering something. In fact, I can’t put my finger on any other similar conversation I ever had with him. Typically, he not only remembered the names of all his own high school friends and college friends and men who had shops or dental offices in his hometown of Newton Falls, Ohio, and people he met during his years in the Army. He even tended to remember the names of people I talked about from high school and college as well or better than I did.
But here he was, calling one day from his law office, where he continued to work every day right into his 90s. He wanted to know if I could help him. He had been trying to remember the names of each of the players on that 1960 Yanks team—which, he reminded me, had won the league championship. He had nearly all of them all in his mind, but he was missing one. He proceeded to go through the lineup. “Brian Dixon was our catcher. Either Leon or Tom Bowman pitched. Eric Filippo was at first base…Leon was at second…”. He went right on, “Paul Ford and Jeff Kuhn” in the outfield, and I’m pretty sure he mentioned another boy, Jay Trieb, who also played outfield and isn’t even in the photo. But Dad was right; he was certainly on the team and in fact was our best base stealer. Dad mentions someone for each position, but he is missing the name of our shortstop. Over 50 years have passed, and Dad is frustrated that he’s forgotten the name of one of his Little League players. It was such a powerful moment that I even discussed this during the eulogy I gave for him in 2015.
If only Gordon had sent me that group photo a few years earlier.
Dale Borman FinkDale Borman Fink retired in 2020 from Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts in North Adams, MA, where he taught courses related to research methods, early childhood education, special education, and children’s literature. Prior to that he was involved in childcare, after-school care, and support for the families of children with disabilities. Among his books are Making a Place for Kids with Disabilities (2000) Control the Climate, Not the Children: Discipline in School Age Care (1995), and a children’s book, Mr. Silver and Mrs. Gold (1980). In 2018, he edited a volume of his father's recollections, called SHOPKEEPER'S SON.
What memories this photo evoked, Dale, and what a touching story about your father. I, too am in the school of believing that group photos don’t need to be stuffy. This team must have meant a lot to you. At our house, we only had left-handed baseball mitts around because my dad and brother were southpaws. I tried to get involved but couldn’t make the switch.
That wasn’t fair to expect you, as a righty, to try to play basebell with lefty mitts! I suppose they didn’t take seriously your baseball aspirations, given the gender expectations of the time.
Wonderful memories, a wonderful story, and wonderfully written as always! And a moving tribute to your father who obviously loved coaching and having his two sons on the team.
I played softball as a kid and remember the chant NO BATTER NO BATTER. Once when I was on the bench I was told to run out and coach third. I didn’t want to admit that I really didn’t know to coach third, so I told the girl on base, “Run on anything.”. Years later I told my husband that story, so “Run on anything” became a family joke.
Actually it’s not a bad life lesson.
I love the bravado of getting out there and ACTING LIKE A COACH even when you knew nothing! And I am happy to know that your family adopted that line, “Run on anything.” We had a number of those, beginning with, “Golly, Richard’s lucky;” and “Why do we have to go to the hockey game!”
Dale, what a beautiful spin off a single photo. Middle America in 1960. Beautifully told! Before I began reading, I looked at the photo and thought ‘what a lucky team to have such a kind- and solid-looking man for a coach, and he turns out to be your father.
Loved the mini profiles you wrote — ‘pitcher catcher, pitcher catcher…’ the lefty pitcher/second baseman. That takes an arm, all right! Also loved the portrait of your father and the Nixon/McCarthy tale.
My first joke of that color went thusly:
Question: What happened to the lady who backed into the airplane propeller?
Answer: Disaster.
You captured a different time in a different world just beautifully!
I’m glad I’m not the only one to remember those elementary-school jokes, and how we first got acculturated into “foul language” and tiptoed toward forbidden subjects, such as bare-bottomed women.
What a poignant story, Dale. It is evocative of an era for me, as my father coached my brothers’ Little League teams. I’m sure, like your father, he would have remembered the names of the players on my middle brother’s team because it was a pretty good team. My youngest brother hated sports and rode the bench most of the time. This is really a loving portrait of your father and a great riff on a photo.
As noted, just a great story — really many smaller anecdotes — emanating out of just one group (team) photo. You really show us how our memories work, and I much enjoyed hearing so many of yours.
And, indeed, your story made me think of my own 1960 Little League team. I was at least able to reconnect with some of my teammates at our 50th high school reunion in 2017. And your story also reminded me that, though I am/was ambidextrous and primarily left handed, the first baseball glove I was given was right handed and I stuck with it — though I played most other sports, like tennis and football, left handed. So, unlike Leon, I was a right handed second baseman and could continue playing that position ad nauseam — most recently, in the New York City law firms’ softball league.
Was your team named after the NY Yankees, our side in the Civil War or some other derivation? I wouldn’t think “Yanks” would be a likely team name in Indianapolis.
I think most of us assumed that Yanks was short for Yankees, who had their fair share of fans all over, sort of like the dominant Celtics did back in the Bill Russell era. But why we weren’t just called the Yankees, who knows? This of course, did not stop me from rooting my heart out later that fall when the unlikely Pirates, with my favorite player, Roberto Clemente, went up against the actual Yankees! And we all know the outcome of that one.
Makes sense, Dale. My bet is that someone figured out that “YANKS, ” with fewer letters, was cheaper to sew on and/or fit more easily on a little kid’s jersey.
Love the photo, Dale. Perfectly captures that 1960 era – all the youthfulness of boys wanting to do well with the half-plastic glass frames (my brother wore the same), lean bodies and earnest smiles. And your gentle father with arms around the taller boys. You give us vivid profiles of each player (amazing that you remember almost all so well), love the little off-color joke (why did the bus driver think to say that in front of youngsters?), but your father’s story of the other father’s admiration for Nixon (and McCarthy – in 1960!) is stunning. To our sensibilities, it is shocking.
We were on a tony golf cruise to Normandy with wealthy Republicans in June, 2016 (we’d signed up for it a year earlier). Over dinner one night, we overheard people at the table next to us saying how much they thought HE (you know who) was a man of HONOR. I nearly tossed my cookies and refused to sit anywhere near those people for the remainder of the trip. Indeed, even before COVID, we refused to travel with that company (it was our third trip with them, but first since the Orange Monster came into office), as long as there was a Republican in office.
But of course, the best is your conversation with your dad late in his life, his amazing memory and using his clear, fond memories of coaching your team as part of your eulogy for him. He sounds like an extraordinary man and you’ve framed your discussion of him by detailing that photo.
Thanks for taking the time to tell me which specific details in the story stood out to you; I very much appreciate that. Your memory of traveling in 2016 recalls what my irish bike trip guide said (in 2019)–that whenever Americans came on his trips since 2016, he had to separate them and put the Brits or others in between at their evening meals.
I like what you did there with the word “framing.” Without realizing it, I used a “framed” photo as a link to that important conversation with my Dad and indeed a framing device for the entire narrative.
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Glad you liked my use of the word “framing”. It was deliberate. And I just realized that my trip was 2017, since the election was Nov. 2016. But you get the idea.
The first trip we took with this company was a “British Isles” trip, and the Trump golf course in Scotland was on the agenda (this was in 2013, before any hints of a political future). My husband didn’t like the course at all, said NO ONE bought anything in the pro shop and now when the company offers the trip, they offer an alternative course on that day, since they still do take some folks to the Trump course. It is VERY controversial (aside from his politics, he lied about what he’d invest in the economy, how many jobs he’d create, even to what extent he’d finish things – he never built a hotel, or finished the pro shop, etc. Big surprise, the man who lies about everything).
My Irish cycling guide actually said the summer of 2016 was the worst (as of 2019) as for Americans expressing mutual disdain for one another–the Trumpists vs. those who were for Hillary, before the election.
Thanks again for your close reading, and yes, I realized you chose that word “framing” in your response, and it was a brilliant touch.
I like the part about the ‘batter patter’.
Dale, I loved your story and regretted it had to come to an end. How much being on that team–with your brother no less, and your dad as coach–must have brought to your young life. Thanks for sharing this sweet memory of that time.
As an aside, like you, one of my brothers also was a “Yankee” and the other wore glasses, which, for him at least, were a bit of a challenge to secure to his head as an outfielder. Were they for you?
Another comical (weird) memory of early 1960s Little League — the father who would bound out of the stands whenever his son came to bat and then run down the baseline parallel with the boy until they both reached first base. Yikes. I doubt your dad would have put up with that!
Susan, that is a remarkable story of beyond-the-pale activity by a youth sports dad! OMG! I don’t know what my Dad or any of would have done in the face of that, but it does make a comical picture in historical perspective.
As to the glasses, my brother and I wore elastic straps when we played basketball, but I don’t think we did enough running or moving around in baseball to be concerned about the glasses falling off.
Thanks for your affirming words about my piece. I sometimes get a bit long compared to other Retro writers, and I work to avoid trying anyone’s patience; it’s nice to hear those words, “regretted when it came to an end.”
A very sweet story and a lovely picture, dale. And you have an AMAZING memory for names. I start to forget peoples names as they walk out the door!