Jun 5, 2026 6 min read

One of my favorite outdoor pastimes is taking in a ballgame. Having coached for so many years, I guess it lends to reason. My buddy Vinnie and I traveled up to Berlin Brothersvalley to watch some local high school softball action the other evening. As I think about it, this would have made the perfect Memorial Day column but I didn’t think of it in time. And in answer to Vinnie’s question as to “How do you decide what to write about?” sometimes it’s as simple as this.

During the first or second inning, I witnessed an umpire stop a high school softball playoff game and address the away team’s dugout because someone, I believe it was a coach, said something like “Oh my!” in questioning a ball/strike location call. The umpire called time and shouted “That’ll be enough!” He walked over to the dugout and told the offending coach that there would be no more of this behavior. Since I am an umpire, I was as surprised by the perceived overreaction as anyone in the audience. This guy would never have lasted more than a couple of innings at our family Memorial Day Picnic.

Does anyone even still play backyard softball? You see, I grew up in a family of champion arguers … reunions, Sunday visits, funerals, weddings … didn’t matter. These guys really set the bar high. They were professional arguers. Therefore, it only stands to reason that I have always enjoyed a good argument as well as a good ballgame. In recent years, I have lost some zeal for arguing just for the sake of arguing but I still enjoy watching two masters face off. Some of the best arguments that I have ever witnessed took place at our Memorial Day picnic softball games. Uncle Blair, Uncle Ab, Uncle George, Uncle Dupe, Uncle Jim, Pap Everly, my mom just to name a few.

Have I mentioned that most of these arguments took place while the majority of the contestants were smoking? And quite possibly drinking? Simply playing the game was dangerous from dodging all the lit cigarettes and beer cans lying about the playing field. As kids, we, in turn, learned proper argument etiquette from our adult role models even if we didn’t develop the same nicotine addictions.

Our family picked teams the old-fashioned way. Everyone wanting to play stood in a line like in gym class and the elders (Uncle Blair and Grandpap Bill) would take turns choosing sides. Your ego could take a real beating at the risk of being chosen last or heaven forbid, not at all. I can recall one year where some idiot came up with the bright idea to let the two teenaged baseball players serve as captains but the whole thing ended up in a giant argument. No one was concerned with feelings. If the body membership felt that you were likely to get hurt, or more importantly, be recorded as a permanent out, then you were sent packing (see crying) back to the porch or more embarrassingly, to sit and watch. Keep in mind, there were a number of individuals present who had major league tryouts in their day. Several more of the youngsters would go on to the same. It mattered not. Uncles over the age of 40 were usually the top picks. They were often not the best athletes but they were the best arguers if not the most forceful. They would usually lobby for first pick and mostly received such. Married fathers were the second tier. Teenage males followed. Then came athletic pubescants, followed by sundry aunts, cousins and any number of “little kids” who may or may not make the cut.

Naturally, there was an initial argument as to which team chose first. That argument usually had something to do with “You chose first last year. … No I didn’t… and so on and so forth.” This was serious as death, family picnic mushball. Gloves were encouraged but not required, nor did everyone choose to don a mitt. Base distances were arbitrary, usually dictated by how much room there was from the ditch or if the electric ground transformer had to be “in or out of play.” A hanging strand of barbed wire carries a lot of sway when it comes to the luxury of field dimensions. Since the yearly picnic was held at my sister Jan’s house, a loosely adhered to set of ground rules carried over for this venue.

I don’t recall much safety equipment being available. A catcher was required for each team but no masks were worn, no chest protectors and certainly no shin guards. There was a pervasive “swing for the fence” mentality by all contestants. It was not how you played the game that was important but rather whether you won or lost. Both outcomes were sure to result in additional arguments which would carry over to the second game of the doubleheader, if anyone was still able to walk. There was an argument as to whether to choose new teams for game two or stick with the originals. As I harken back to these games, I can scarcely fathom how hard everyone played, knowing that they all had to get up for work the next day. There were usually any number of pulled muscles and bruises and sometimes worse.

I can recall one of the all time greatest picnic softball arguments occurring when Uncle Blair threw inside on an 8-year-old who was crowding the plate. In his defense, Uncle Blair warned him. The pitch got away from Blair, glancing off the batter’s head. I went to school the next day with a lump on my temple.

I was told it was a good thing Uncle Blair liked me. After all, I was his namesake. Uncle Blair argued that I shouldn’t have been awarded first base because it was only a mushball. He also suggested playing “soakies” any number of times but was shouted down by the far thinking majority of responsible adults. By any standards, these were tough people.

To make matters worse, I couldn’t argue back because 1. Uncle Blair was older than me and as a kid, was not permitted to argue with adults. 2. They might not let me continue to play if I acted like a sissie. And 3. There was a good chance that Uncle Blair would throw inside again, the next time I came to the plate, even if I didn’t argue. Not to worry. Pap Bill would take up my torch and retaliate by throwing at my cousin Guido, just two years my senior.

Times were different back then, there’s no arguing that.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com