James F. Gauss (Originator)
September 19, 2024
In the era of Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider and Willie “Say Hey Kid” Mays, many kids of the decade of the 1950s dreamed of becoming a major league baseball player. I was no different. I lived for baseball. It was my passion from an early age. I couldn’t wait to watch the New York Yankees, New York Giants or Brooklyn Dodgers on our tiny, but new 13-inch Emerson television encased in a behemoth box sitting against the wall in our small, but cozy living room.
My mother never had to worry about where I was or what I was doing. I would be somewhere familiar playing baseball with neighborhood kids or out in the driveway practicing my mighty swing by hitting rocks out of our driveway into the wood lot across the street with my favorite, but splintered bat endorsed by non-other than the mighty Ted Williams of the Boston Red Sox.
I was a “died-in-the-wool” Yankee fan, however. When I couldn’t gather enough kids to play the sport, two of us resorted to a game of one-on-one at the local Little League field. It was challenging, but effective in absorbing our free time and honing our skills—whatever we envisioned them to be.
In my early teens I became friends with a “city boy” who moved near our rural neighborhood, and he introduced me to a very challenging version of “stick ball” where city kids used a broom stick and tennis ball to play the game in the streets of New York and elsewhere. Only our version was “half ball.” We used a broom stick, but instead of a tennis ball, we bought a smaller, hollow pink rubber ball and cut it in half. Cutting it in half gave the thrower unique pitching options with open curved surfaces. Throwing the half ball flat or horizontal gave it a “fast ball” type quickness. Throwing it with the inner surface exposed outward resulted in a mean curve ball. We would play for hours during the summer months when we could not muster enough neighborhood kids to field at least two teams of three. Little did we know, but that game honed our batting eye and skills.
When I entered our brand-new high school as a freshman, I had little hope of making any athletic team since there were plenty of boys who were more skilled than I was, but I had an ace of a coach. My uncle, a World War II Navy vet (who survived Pearl Harbor), lived up the street and he was an exceptional baseball player and athlete. I was told that prior to WWII, he played for a college team (possibly Duke University), and not only was he a switch hitter, but as a pitcher he would throw both righthanded and lefthanded (really confusing the batter).
Since my uncle’s children were much younger than me, he spent considerable time coaching me after my father died in my early teens. He taught me the art of the hook shot in basketball, the pass catching techniques of football and how to bat left-handed even though I was somewhat of a natural hitter right-handed. It was this latter skill that would get me in trouble in high school.
Most of my neighborhood buddies avoided trying out for sport teams in high school, but that did not deter me. Our new high school only had two grades the first year, so I did not attempt tryouts for any of the teams. In my sophomore and junior years, I tried out for the football team (I was a skinny six-footer at 145 pounds soaking wet), basketball, cross-country, track and field and baseball. I can sum up my high school athletic career in one word: frustrated.
In my sophomore year I made the football team as an end (receiver). Everyone made the team that tried out because we were such a small school. During practice, our tough Princeton University alum coach put me on the defensive or offensive line as bruising fodder against guys a hundred pounds heavier, but I prevailed (most of the time). During a preseason practice game against a seasoned, larger team, he for some reason called my name to go in for four plays on defense as a linebacker (a position I had never played or been coached in). As I remember my effort. On one play I was able to break through the offensive line and tackle the quarterback for a loss of yards. On another snap from center, I again penetrated the opposing team’s line and tackled the halfback for a loss. I thought for sure, now the coach would notice me and give me an opportunity to play. However, on game day, even though we lost most games, he never gave me a chance. I never played one down. Not sour grapes, I was just frustrated.
In the spring of that school year, I tried out for the baseball team as a first baseman. To my astonishment I made the team. Not only made it but made the starting team as one of only two sophomores on the starting nine. I was not a great player, but I was a skilled fielder and decent hitter—right-handed. Remember, my uncle taught me how to hit left-handed too, but I never had the confidence to switch hit in a game, other than a neighborhood game.
Before the competitive baseball season started, however, I made a tactical mistake. During batting practice one day, when I thought the coach was not paying attention, after taking my swings right-handed, I decided to take a few left-handed. To my shock, I was wailing the pitches deep into right field (there was not a fence). The loud wooden crack of the bat quickly caught the coach’s attention, and he asked me to continue swinging. Afterwards, he said: “From now on you will bat left-handed.” I tried to explain to him that it was just practice, that I don’t and can’t bat left-handed in a game. But he would have none of my excuses. It was hitting left-handed, no matter what the results.
So, I can sum up my baseball career in high school with one word: frustrated. Although I played every game that season at first base and was lauded for my fielding skills, at the plate it was much different. Not used to facing fastballs and curve balls from the left side, I went the entire season without a hit. To say the least it was embarrassing, and I knew I was a much better hitter if I could just swing from the right side. Despite that great disappointment, I tried out again as a junior, but the coach still stubbornly insisted I bat left-handed. Consequently, he selected a natural left-handed hitting first baseman over me and I quit realizing I was not going to get to play my position again.
In the fall of my junior year, I tried cross-country’s 2.5-mile run. I almost completed the season. Although I was competitive, my sinuses caused me a problem and I would have trouble breathing toward the end of the run. I was, well, frustrated.
Not to be discouraged, I went out for varsity basketball, but was relegated to the JV squad where I did get frequent playing time.
In the spring, I turned to track and field. I had modest success as a high jumper, mid distance runner and in the javelin throw. Enough to get a school letter, but not enough to be a “winner.” By now, you get the picture.
In my senior year I did not try out for any sport teams. However, that year the gym class I was in had an intermural basketball team on which I played. Toward the end of the varsity basketball season the various gym basketball teams competed for the school title. Our team was in the “championship” final game before the whole school. I played the whole game and performed beyond my ability at the time, ending the game as the high scorer. Afterwards, the varsity basketball head coach approached me and asked why I had not tried out for the team. My response was simple, but to the point: “I did, but you cut me.” I was frustrated.
So, although I may have had visions of being a “Rising Star”, it was not meant to be. But I am okay with that. During my post high school years, I turned to softball to release my athleticism, a game I had never played as a youth. Many years later, in graduate school, I had my own reprieve as the first basemen on our grad school’s fast pitch softball team. Until then, I had never faced a fast pitch softball pitcher. It was an experience, but I caught on quickly. In one game, in the same inning, I hit two, yes, two homeruns—LEFT-HANDED. I repeated the feat in my 50s playing for our church team. Again, left-handed. God does have sense of humor.
The Rising Star Brand. About thirty years ago I was working on a project for a prospective client. I spent many hours and days crafting my approach and developing a logo for the effort. The business opportunity never materialized, and I shelved the idea but kept the logos I had designed. In the back of my mind, I thought that someday it would be a great sportswear brand. Many years later I tried a couple of times to bring it to fruition, but the sportwear companies I approached were busy with their own branding of products. So, I shelved it for what I thought would be the last time.
Now, in the sunset of my years, an opportunity has arisen that offers me the prospect of presenting once again the Rising Star Brand idea—not to a business, but to the public. Look at the many creations in sportswear and accessories and see what you think. Whether you are a youthful competitor or a weekend wannabe athlete, you just might find something that expresses your desires or feelings, or that of a child you know or coach that could use a little encouragement to try their best, or just enjoy the sport of their passion.
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