Tales from Tulsa Sandlot: The New Year

By Jonathan Merkel

It's a brisk January Saturday night in Tulsa. Winds from the south bite like crisp frost. An array of vehicles--old work trucks with 400,000 miles, electric Volvo SUVs, pristine baseball dad Ford F-150s, plus more than a few old buckets--pull into the dark parking lot of Perfect Practice, one of Tulsa's indoor baseball practice facilities. This is the stage for the night's events.  

Some of these men arrive and walk in alone with bags of baseball gear, but not many. Observers of the parking lot would see many of these men offering warm greetings to those who happened to arrive at the same time. Handshakes, shout-outs, hugs. Guys of all ages between 60 and 16, but most in their 30’s and 40’s, all happy to see each other. Observers might wonder if this group was all family, and this was their reunion. Family or not, once inside, it's immediately clear that all are welcome. 

Bret Spears, Tulsa's bald, brilliant and charismatic sandlot icon, sits behind a folding table at the door. JR Philips, Bret's longtime Rumbler teammate, is writing down names on raffle tickets which he then dumps into a large, repurposed and stickered Folgers can. A welcome desk to the left is covered with Tshirts and hats with the many unique names and logos of teams in Tulsa's sandlot orbit: Tulsa Rumblers, Tulsa Jesters, Carolina Kudzu, Nashville Dollys, Milwaukee Bangers. There are decorative baseball bats, signed baseball cards, and vintage boxed Starting Lineup figurines from the 80s and 90s. There's a single hand-painted bobblehead with five players, all in the unique uniforms of the local Tulsa sandlot teams: Outlaws, Saturns, Jesters, Breeze, and Rumblers.

Bret lets you know that these are all prizes, so buy a ticket. This is to benefit Memorial High School's baseball team after all. No need to remind anyone that Derek Dyson, an original Tulsa Rumbler and true Tulsa OG, has taken over the manager position for the high school squad. 

It was Dyson who stepped in to save the team and program from being eliminated entirely. It's Dyson who has been working with the young and neophyte team of boys who are just learning the game, and, in turn, to love baseball. It's also Dyson who has been working with his team's miniscule budget, trying to build a team with a paltry $600, hoping to compete against the more baseball-centric suburban communities nearby who pour cash into their programs. Places where there is plenty of money--Jenks, Owasso, Broken Arrow--because the sport is something many kids play since birth, and will never go away.

Most people say something along the lines of, of course we love Dyson, so please let us buy a ticket. Better yet, give me ten. Bret obliges, and in time, everyone has arrived.

In the practice facility, there's a large open grass space at the end of a walkway. To get to it, one passes about twelve netted pitching and hitting lanes on the right. Beyond the lanes towards the far wall, you can see it opens into another large room where there's another open turf space, and maybe six more pitching lanes on the far side. 

Guys are throwing BP behind L-screens to hitters with their hats on backwards in the lanes. Some are taking cuts on the tee. In the big open space, pairs of guys are warming up their arms in rows. Some are hitting grounders to each other. 

Beside the big open space there are bleachers where new arrivals are dropping their gear and getting settled. They continue conversations which started in the parking lot. They greet those who have already been here getting work in.

Bret has worked his magic with Elgin Park again, getting them to donate a dozen large pizzas and two trays of wings. Hungry guys are starting to sniff around the food, wondering who will be the one to break the seal. Soon it happens, and everyone begins to eat. Dead Armadillo hooked the Jesters up with a few flats of their craft beer, so soon the guys start breaking the seal on those six packs as well. 

The sound of glove leather popping, bats cracking, beer cans snapping open, and a hum of constant talk, chatter, and laughter permeates the large facility. Everywhere here there is baseball. Guys in good shape who grew up playing, guys in bad shape who never really played, and every other kind of guy in between are working on their game. Over 50 people total, all who paid $20 to be here.

They sweat out water because they don't drink, or sweat out beer because they do. Everyone is pushing themselves. Pitching the ball 57 miles per hour, hitting foul after foul straight up into the netting during BP, flubbing grounders, it really doesn't matter. Everyone is having fun playing baseball. Plus, this is January after all. No need to stress about results yet. Most make some remark about needing to get back in shape. Perhaps this will be the year. There is the motivation to play well, but also, none of these 42 year olds are going pro, so the motivation to be all they can be is fleeting. This is about fun.

Which makes it cool when someone says they're here for their first time playing again, and that they can't remember the last time they played baseball. After a while, the new guys are sore. But they can't remember having this much fun, soreness be damned. Most who show up wonder why they ever stopped playing, which is why they always come back.

This group of men has been playing ball together a while, some since 2017 or 2018. Most have been around since about 2021 or 2022. Every year, the group swells and changes. Social media is typically what brings in new players. Somehow people stumble across an Instagram account, or perhaps a Facebook. They show up on a Sunday, when it's open sandlot in the spring, summer, and fall. They get thrown in with the 'veteran' group, and everything works itself out on the diamond. Some guys join teams. Some just keep playing. In the end, it's baseball.

Responsibilities tend to take most of the guys out. That or injury. Never really age. No one is too old to give it up entirely. Greg, the Rumblers first baseman, who's the elder statesman at somewhere around 65 still keeps rocking, serving as inspiration for all. One thing is for sure, playing baseball is a privilege for this group. One they want to enjoy as long as possible. Most complete a fair amount of matrimonial negotiating, or have in the past, in order to have time away for baseball. Weekend after weekend, it can be difficult to express the need and consequence to a practical wife. Baseball's just "a game" after all.

But being here, and seeing these guys play catch, dive for grounders, pitch bucket after bucket of BP, share laughs over pizza and beer, swing for the fences and cheer each other on when they hit one square, it's clear how much of a kid lives in each of these men. 

Something about this night reminds the observer that sometimes baseball isn't just a game. It's a way of life. And here one remembers that sometimes being too old, or inexperienced doesn't mean being dead or no fun. Sometimes fun just means going for it no matter what. In this, there is palpable trust.

 Here is a place where everyone works, fails and shares success together. Tonight, it's not just about baseball skills, but also the successful fund raiser for the future of Memorial High School baseball. Everyone here, playing baseball together, brings harmony across this patchwork collage of men in Tulsa. Some are calling this part of a revolution happening in baseball. Online it has been called "Sandlot Revolution" www.sandlotrevolution.com

Most guys at Perfect Practice stay until 1am. Door prizes are won and guys keep practicing into the night. They want another slice of this game, this revolution in their life. One more pitch. One more at-bat. 

This work brings peace to these men. Baseball is a game. It's a fun game. It's a game for us all. It's America's game. It's everyone's game.