THE ORIGINS AND CURRENT STATUS OF STICKBALL IN BANGKOK                               

                                      story by Patrick Breheny                                                                                                             

       It was a small ESL class, five students, advanced level, without a course book because they didn’t need it. They were good with grammar, and re vocabulary, while he could explain anything they didn’t understand, they had their smart phones. With such a small group, supplementary handouts to generate conversation were consumed quickly. It took constant innovation and improvisation to engage them, and one day, stuck while planning a lesson, Chase decided to teach stickball. Such would be a novel experience most places in the US, but at least recognized as a baseball form adapted by New York City kids, using a mop or broom stick as a bat, with a hard, lively hollow pink ball called a spaldeen---yes, made by Spalding---not known to have been sold much beyond the boroughs unless in spots like Hoboken, Newark, Jersey City where the game would have spread with refugees.

     His students were Chinese kids new to Bangkok, waiting to enter university in an English language program, and getting a soft landing at Support and Welcoming Academy with classes in English Language, Thai Language, and Computer Skills, with which they were not lacking. Young as they were, late teens, they were living by themselves and with roommates in apartments in the neighborhood. of SAWA.

     Needless to say, these were not the children of coal miners or factory workers. Chase deduced China had a middle class because they were from it. Not only from families that could afford to pay their rents and tuition, they also listened to pop music, mostly American and K-pop, played computer games, went to malls, and liked other ethnic food, particularly Thai. And despite the ominous predictions of doom from their elders and pundits, they were infectiously energetic, enthusiastic and expectant of a future.

     Thais all have nicknames, partially because their real names are so long, and the Chinese students followed suit. There was Dash, who used to heckle and interrupt class, and with whom Chase made an alliance. He knew Dash acted up because he was bored. SAWA demanded regular testing, and Dash would knock off any quiz Chase gave. Yet he was required to be in the room .The unspoken truce they reached was that Dash could sit with his earphones in, read, do what he wanted, as long as he did it quietly and didn’t disrupt.

     Most spectacular was Fantasy, who initially had golden hair. Not blonde, his hair glowed .and later became fire engine red---a shiny, reflecting well polished fire engine on a sunny afternoon..

     Sky Light, one of the two girls, whose name was not to confused as Skylight, was bone thin and small, about ninety pounds. She at first seemed such a wisp it was possible to think of her as to not actually exist, but as it turned out, she very much existed. She went by herself to all the tourist venues she scouted on her laptop---the Grand Palace, Jim Thompson House, The National Library, Ayutthaya , and various temples--- and asked people there to take pictures of her, returning to class to show them off.

     There was Arthur, as advanced in English as Dash, but with the opposing attitude. Arthur was attentive and participatory, and seemed of a mind that if there was something to be learned in any situation he would take advantage of it.

     That left the other young woman, Lucky---quiet, shy, needing to be drawn out to engage in “English conversation” but quite competent when she spoke loudly enough .to be heard.

    In one of the early meetings, to stimulate discussion, he asked them to each say what they found different in Bangkok. As telling as their reasons for were the topics.

     Dash said tuk-tuks, those crazy roaring machines,  open carriages pulled by  motorcycles, and often piloted by maniacs

     Sky Light said temples, many of which she’d verifiably been to.

     Lucky said Elephants, and at that time, before they were banned, many were in the city, the mahouts hustle being to sell food to tourist to feed them

     Arthur said Sky Train, a modern and efficient way to beat street traffic

     Fantasy said lady boys, not a slur, just what Thai transvestites call themselves)

      Playing stickball in a Thai or any classroom has limitations. No spaldeen was available. A tennis ball could do, sometimes did in the Bronx, but one side of the room was glass panels with a corridor running along it. Wouldn’t do to break a window ---wouldn’t do to break a window especially if someone was walking by. Chase found that an ace bandage rolled tightly and taped could be a safe ball. For a bat, he brought from home his three foot tall Asian broom, the head of which he was not willing to decapitate, and in fact he needed the fanned end of the broom to hit the “ball”. What he discovered practicing in his living room was that he did not have control over where he could direct the bandage ball, and if hit hard enough the bandage would unravel mid air and for an instant become a promising flying banner before flopping unceremoniously to the floor. 

     Adhering to the academic, he drew a diagram on the board to explain the baseball infield and ground rules, there being no part of the room that could be construed as outfield, and no prospect anyway of hitting the ball intact over their heads. Keeping things simple, their objective would be to either catch a fly ball to get him out, or in the case of a surviving ground ball, to throw it to the first baseman---person---who just had to catch it. There wouldn’t be any actual base running because, well, like the desks were in the way. 

    He had to assign positions. Dash wanted to be the “thrower” When Chase explained that the one who throws the ball was the pitcher, but there would be no pitching, Dash settled for third base. Rounding out the SAWA infield were Arthur at short stop, Fantasy at second, and   Lucky was the first base---person. He made Sky, as her name had evolved to from Sky Light, the pitcher-in-name-only because somebody still needed to be in that spot in case of the very possible event he couldn’t hit any farther.

     Chase batted by throwing the ball up and swinging as it came down, as the game was often played, .but his first effort didn’t speak of expertise. He established some inconsequential contact between the broom bristles and the ball, but the ball just fell on the floor. Maybe should have come better prepared to teach, practiced more. His recovery was stronger. Angry at himself, he belted it and it went in a straight line drive to Lucky at first base. Unfamiliar with stickball dynamics, she just stood there observing the ball as it came and hit her in the face.  A rolled up ace bandage can’t do much harm, but she was struck by a well hit if soft airborne object. She ran out of the room into the hall, stood looking in through the glass paneled door. He went out to apologize and console, see if she was alright. She said she was, wasn’t hurt, but also that she wasn’t going back into the room just yet.

     He learned where on the fan of the broom to hit the ball for momentum. His aim didn’t get much better, but the players’ reflexes seemed to improve because Sky and Frank and Fantasy began catching the pop ups hit toward them. Seeing that, Lucky came back in and re-assumed her first base slot. He knew Dash was frustrated because no balls were hit toward him and he’d expected a right handed batter would be hitting to third base. Chase just couldn’t pull the unpredictable ball there even with a full swing.

    Then somehow he hit a ground ball to third base that survived as a ball. Dash scooped up with the grace of a pro and threw across the room to Lucky. She caught it! He knew all along she had it in her. She was a lefty, a natural first basewoman.

.     .

    He thought that was that. Occasional cultural diversions were okay, but he wasn’t teaching P.E., and as “Jane” in the admin office reminded him, SAWA actually wanted him coming up again with material related to contemporary English usage. Classes resumed with topics intended for spontaneous conversation. During this interval, another dynamic was happening in the room. Sky had formerly sat at the back with Lucky, a kind of intended gender segregation, or at least for female camaraderie. She now changed seats and sat in the seats in front, beside Fantasy. And not just sat. There was chemistry, unmistakable flirtation. They seemed…infatuated   This was negating all previous assumptions of, and encouraged by, Fantasy. He was bashful (not one of his usual traits), red faced blushing, laughing, confused---as was Sky. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, both of them.

     He did what any sensible teacher would do. He ignored it. And how could he comprehend these millenniums. A new generation, and yet---so much like the ones before

      Maybe a week after the classroom stickball game, Dash came to school with a spaldeen he had bought on e-bay from a seller in Bangkok. It looked new, shiny pink and bouncy, reflecting the overhead neon lights that conjured a vision of broken glass with that toxic white powder spilling out.

     He said, “We can’t hit a real ball in here.”

     Dash said, “They have a yard in back.”

     “I didn’t bring my broom”

     Dash smiled. He wouldn’t be so easily deterred. ”I’m ahead of you, Teach.”

     The internet can be annoying. He actually knew that in NYC public schools students called the teacher “Teach” or at least used to in the stickball ages, and usually respectfully but not always. Reference BLACKBOARD JUNGLE.

     Dash had sacrificed his mop. “A REAL stickball bat,” he proclaimed.

     Chase asked the rest of the class how they felt about this. He was thinking a little of Jane in the office, but Dash had lobbied before he got there. Jane was on board for one more time only, and the class was for it,. Maybe they were just bored. Enough of the English, Computer, Thai Language classes. Whatever their motivation, they were up for a real stickball experience out back behind the schoolhouse.

      The yard behind the school was a miniature basketball court, and because of the rectangular shape it could be adapted for a stickball infield. Home plate was a chalk drawing under the nearest basket to the two story building, first base was Lucky’s backpack  halfway along the right side foul line, the tile under the farthest basket was second, and along the file line returning left was placed a sneaker of undeclared origin as third base. With the lively spaldeen, balls could be, no doubt would be, hit into the trees beyond the court, so without an outfield---there weren’t enough players to assign  outfielders---a ball hit over the heads of the infielders was a double, a ball hit into the trees a triple, and a home run would be a ball hit over the fence of the school property and into the adjacent yard, from which Chase hoped Dash’s precious spaldeen could be retrieved, though he wasn’t that hopeful, there being a barking growling dog heard over there that had apparently gone berserk from this sudden invasion of people so close to its turf.

     About teams and scoring: They were only a team as fielders. They’d take turns batting, and each batter scored against the team. If there was a runner on base, Chase would take that position, (That would mean giving up his role as catcher, so in such event the batter would have to chase any balls not hit and return them to the pitcher) If they needed a second base runner, Jane could be summoned. Bases loaded? Just imagine the third runner and how he would progress, or maybe the security guy could stand in. He didn’t think these rookies would likely be pulling off any double plays just yet..

     Chase was going to let Dash bat first, but he wanted to pitch and he could take his ball and go home. Dash pitching meant Sky went to third base. She concurred, but wanted to pitch when Dash batted.

     First batter, top of the line-up, was Fantasy. Chase could see Dash had been practicing and watching baseball somewhere. He shook off signals Chase, as catcher, wasn’t giving, spit several times, hit clots of dirt off cleats that didn’t exist, scuffed the ground where the mound would be,  did an elaborate wind-up, and  raised his left leg to throw, as if---as if this field didn’t just have twenty  feet between him and Fantasy.    

     “Dash, this isn’t Yankee Stadium and he’s not Lou Gherig”

     But Dash was already in motion, so talk to a tree in the outfield. Dash fired, fast and

right down the middle. Fantasy stood motionless and wobbled the bat on his shoulder. Chase caught the pitch and it stung his bare hands.

    Pitcher-catcher conference, private conversation.

     “Strike one, right?”

    “You’re throwing too hard. He didn’t see the ball.”

    :”Just my form.”

     “You want to hit one of these girls with a ball?”

    “They’re here.”

     “Pitch underhand.”

     “Coach!”

     “Underhand.”

     “Just to the girls?”

     “Everybody. Underhand or Sky’s the pitcher.”

     He said something in Chinese that Chase knew wasn’t a blessing.

     “And don’t talk to me like that.”

     By Dash’s reaction, Chase had bluffed him into wondering at least if he’d understood..

     “Some underhand softball pitchers throw pretty hard”

     “Control yourself.. They’re not Hall of Fame-ers”

     He did have to wonder if he was underestimating them when Fantasy, the first batter ever at the SAWA filed hit that pinkie high above the trees and into the dog of the yard. Of course he did know Sky was watching.

    So who would go in and get it? Or shouldn’t they go around to the house and ask permission? There was a discussion about whose responsibility it was. Chase was the teacher, the initiator of all of this. Fantasy hit the ball there. Dash had pitched it to him None of that diminished the growls, and Fido wasn’t going to return it. Or was he? It was in his mouth and he came up to his side of the fence with one slimy slobbery spaldeen. And now they saw this was a big brown dog that looked half wolf, though its tail was wagging. Maybe he’d just been welcoming them all along. The hard part remained: How to get the ball from him?.

     Jane, who had been doing unhidden surveillance from an office window, came into the yard. She said nothing, but went to a section of the wire fencing that had been sliced and pulled a strip back. Fido came into the school yard. Teacher and students faced the imminent prospect now of one of them reaching a hand out to those jaws, or coaxing the dog to drop the ball. Jane, dressed as elegantly as a Cosmopolitan cover model, long skirt with hem and brown boots, pulled a roll of tissue from her purse, wrapped her elegant tapered hand with it, and took the ball. She then, with a wave, directed the dog back to his own yard and he obeyed.

     To Chases’s astonished gaze, she said, “I live there. That’s my doggie.”

      Beginner’s luck was all he could attribute Fantasy’s opening home run to. Of the others, Arthur hit a ground ball and was thrown out at first. (Go, Lucky) Lucky hit a double putting Chase on base as designated runner When one fielder became batter, the field spread out to cover, Sky hit a pop up Dash caught. Dash was last hitter, Sky pitching, and she struck him out..

     Afterwards, Chase mused, Today I am no longer a child, I put away childish things. He vowed to do so starting with the next class, for which he wrote a comprehensive lesson plan, submitted a copy to Jane, and at which class Dash told him they played again in the afternoon up the sub-soi where most of them lived, and where there wasn’t much traffic. Thai kids in the neighborhood, their age, observed, and challenged them to a game. Arthur exclaimed, “We won!” as though that of course was a given with their experience.. Fantasy had done his own research of New York-ana and quipped, “This neighborhood is unbelievable.” Dash said, “Teach, we need you today to explain the game to them. They want to make their own rules.”

     “Who am I, Abner Doubleday?

     “What?”

    “Look it up.”

     He could see the Thai kids were of the motorcycle road racing set, with an adventurism that compelled them to challenge at stickball. They had their monikers too, and their spokesman was Top, probably because he was. .Top was tall and skinny with

tatted arms, a vest (no emblems), blue jeans, boots, and a small adolescent goatee trying to sprout. He seemed genuinely eager to learn the rules of stickball, in the belief, Chase gathered, that the Chinese had just made them up as they went along to win.

    So, again the diagram, this time on the blank side of his copy of today’s lesson plan. Top knew enough English to communicate, and Chase was able to explain how, as he recalled, stickball had  been played in the Bronx, New York City once upon a time.

     Top asked, “You don’t throw the ball at the runner?”

     Chase screamed at his team, “You did cheat.”

     Dash was emphatic. “That’s a Chinese game we incorporated.”

     “Unspeakable.”

      “No its not. We were playing like that when they came and wanted to play us.”

      “If you’re making your own rules, you don’t need me.”

     “Okay, stickball rules then. Tell them, and we’ll all play stickball.”

     Well, if everybody was on for purist stickball, maybe he’d just inadvertently saved it from becoming hybridized in Bangkok. What more could he want? He explained it again, now to both teams, even if the Chinese heard it before. A refresher. No ball throwing at runners.

..

      He then divorced himself from the sports realm to concentrate on the academic. If they were sometimes bored, well it wasn’t designed to be fun, but after a week he himself was getting antsy. He could have known his young charges wouldn’t leave it like that.

     Nine o’cloch one morning, he was astounded to find all five in the room. Except Arthur, they usually ambled in at ten after, quarter after, 9:30 if Dash, yawning, sleep still in their eyes. Chase always arrived at 9:00 to leave no excuse for docking him just because nothing happened for another quarter hour except chatting with Arthur. This day, the desks were pushed around to form a circle. The center of focus was Fantasy, sitting wearing a T-shirt, surrounded by the rest, who all had scissors in their hands. They obviously had been waiting for Chase’s arrival to start clipping, and once they knew they had his attention, they started. It wasn’t an assault. Fantasy was smiling, as his mercury tinted locks dropped to the newspaper pages set on the floor.

     In a matter of moments, Fantasy looked like---anybody. Well, somebody too. Without the distraction of the hair, Chase noticed how frailly thin he was and how young he looked.

     The pages holding the hair scraps were gathered up, the desks pushed back in place, and as understatement they all sat for class as though nothing unusual had just occurred. Sitting as before in the chairs in front of his desk were Fantasy and Sky. Chase could think of nothing to say except to ask Fantasy, “Why?”

     Fantasy smiled embarrassed and said “Friend.” He barely pointed to the “friend” beside him. Chase got it. Sky was, beneath all, a conservative Chinese girl. What had attracted her, Fantasy’s style and flamboyant hair, was also not acceptable. He had cut it for her.

     In the weeks after that, Chase disciplined himself to teaching. Fantasy and Sky still sat together, but something was missing in their interaction now. And curious about what he had precipitated up the soi, he showed up one afternoon at what he knew was the continuing stickball games Dash had ordered spaldeens from Spaulding, Inc, a whole box of them, and sold them at his cost to the Thai teams.

     Sky and Dash were the pitchers on the SAWA roster, and played other position when they didn’t pitch. Sky was “on the mound” (non-existent of course on asphalt) because, they told him, Dash pitched yesterday so his arm was sore. They used a chalked home plate, a car door handle was first base, a motorcycle parked near the end of the street was second, and a fender was third. Right after he arrived, first base left and they had to wait for another car to park. The teams took turns being first up or last up, and this day SAWA was first. For some reason, maybe believing Chase’s judgment should prevail, SAWA kept the same batting order. And Fantasy, as it was gossiped about in the classroom that he was continually doing, swung at three pitches and completely missed, got no wood at all on the ball,  not even a foul, struck out swinging at air.

     In his position at second base he was having problems too, fumbling balls that allowed hitters to get on base, to a point that the Thai team began deliberately hitting to second. SAWA could change his position, but then the other team could start hitting there. To use him as the catcher---a catcher who dropped balls was a disaster. Before he left, Chase took him aside and told him to practice pitching. Mindful he was that Babe Ruth went from pitcher to batter, and this was the reverse.      

    He did focus on teaching, even as the two seats in front not him ceased throwing sparks. The day came when Sky was sitting beside Dash, and tentatively Lucky took the seat beside Fantasy, Chase thought only because she didn’t like sitting alone.Arthur still sat alone and didn’t seem to mind.

     Fantasy had put a hint of ochre in his crew cut. He had to believe his hair would grow back, and then the color could get outrageous again. Not appropriate yet.

     Chase was staying away from the ballgames, but he was updated. More Thais were interested and forming teams, playing other Thais when SAWA couldn’t face each of them, and there was a tournament planned to decide the best. Not a World Series, but a competition.

     Then Fantasy came to Chase one day and said he wanted to change his nickname.

     “To what?”

    “Boring.”

     He was making a mistake common among English learners, confusing “bored” and “boring”, and he’d tell them what he then said to Fantasy.

     “A bad movie, or a bad book, or a bad day is boring. You’re never boring. You’re bored.”

     “No, I’m Boring.”

     “It’s a temporary condition. You’re hair is coming back nicely, and anyway you’re not your hair.”

      “I want to be called Boring.”

      “A name change operation is a serious matter. I can’t call you Boring. You’re not. I could say Bored, but that’s on me. Keep Fantasy a while longer before you make a decision you’ll regret.”

    “How long?”

    “Until your hair grows back.”

    “How about Babe?

     “How about waiting?”      

     “Okay, Teach.”

      Like what the hell, he tried.

      The tournament was going to go off, but there was a problem. Playing ball in the street was as illegal as street racing, but stickball was only dangerous to the participants, not the general public. However, a phenomenon once endemic in New York was occurring: The police would come to thwart the game, confiscate the bat. In New York they threw it in the sewer, but in Bangkok the sewer was not deep enough to discourage recovery, so they took it away.

     The Thais kids got political. They got permission, the neighbors assented, the cul-de-sac could be closed for the games. They were offered a park, but---stickball on grass? Took the soul out of it. No!

     One afternoon, his students left at lunch to go on an overnight camping trip, and he was mercifully not expected to chaperone. With little planned, he went up to Soi Stickball to see what was up.

     Sure enough, two Thai teams were playing, and following SAWA influence, there were two girls on the field (this never happened in New York) It wasn’t the tournament yet, just practice games, and neither Top nor his team were in this scrimmage. He watched from the sidewalk along the third base car, and after a while the player noticed him.

     He asked Chase, “You like stickball?”

     “Where do you think it comes from?”

    “Stickball? Stickball is Chinese.”

     “No! Its American baseball.”

     “No its not. Stickball is Chinese.”

     A ground ball was hit to him and the kid got ready for the throw to the first base…girl. Had  Lucky defined first base itself as intrinsically female?

     .Sure, after the successful toss to get the batter out the kid could talk, but he was scowling. As he saw it some ignoramus had just come along and challenged what he knew to be so .He asked others. Limited as English speaking skill was with these street urchins, all were adamant about one thing: Stickball was a Chinese game.

     When they were back in class after the excursion to Khao Yai, Chase asked them WHY some of the Thais thought stickball was Chinese. There were a lot of concealed smiles and darting glances, but it was Dash who addressed it.

     “We were playing it.”

    “You didn’t correct the misperception?”

    “We have a game. I told you. No bat. Throw the ball at a runner.”

    “That’s not stickball.”

     “Stickball without a stick. Throw ball.”

     “Do you run bases in throw ball”

     “Doesn’t matter. Teach, you came one day to explain, but after that they deferred to us. Yeah, we’re playing stickball, no throwing at runners, but most of them forgot about you, and there are new players never saw you. They think it’s a Chinese game. Even the ones that remember you don’t care. They got it from us. What difference does it make?”     

    Well---it did. He could go to the tournament and advocate, but they mostly wouldn’t know what he was saying. And, reluctant as he was to concede it, Dash was right that they wouldn’t much care. The game’s the thing. He had the private satisfaction of knowing he’d transplanted it, and his equally private protest was to simply let them think he was skipping the tournament, though---his curiosity got him up there a couple of afternoons after hearing in class about it. Or him. Fantasy hadn’t been lucky in his first at-bat. He was hitting home runs again. His hair was now like a 1950’s DA and blonde. Chase knew was golden was in the wings for flowing waves.

     SAWA may have brought stickball to the soi, but they didn’t win the tournament .That want to one of the adaptable Thai teams who also had their homerun hitters.

     The semester and Chase’s contract with SAWA was ending. He could renew, but he wanted to see the land of stickball, knishes and the Statue of Liberty. There came an afternoon that would be his last, and they had a party of prepared food dishes, juices, sodas. It was lovely and touching, and nobody seemed broke up about the separation. They were “up”, joking, celebratory, yet as the end of class approached a quiet descended that was… disquieting, like finally they didn’t know how to just say goodbye.

     Fantasy rescued that moment by exclaiming.

    “Don’t mope. Play stickball.”

    It got the spirit back and Chase said, “I’ll endorse that.” They took a group picture with him, threw high fives, departed the room with smiles and he went away feeling he had at least left the neighborhood with a form of the great American pastime.

                                          FIVE YEARS LATER,

he was back in Bangkok as a tourist. There was a lot to do he hadn’t done while he lived in Thailand, like all the places Sky had gone to, and he had a wife and two little kids that wanted to see them, but he had to find out first what was happening where he’d worked..

     It was a Tuesday afternoon in January, Thai winter when daytime temps were in the 80s, the rain was over, and people wore jackets for fashion. At night there was really a mid-60’s chill compared to the usual heat. If you were awake at sun-up it was nippy, you felt so cool you wanted a jacket. It almost didn’t seem like Bangkok..

    He went back with his family to the Academy site, but SAWA was gone. The building was still there, now some unmarked industrial plant or warehouse. There was a sign in a case on a concrete wall, white letters printed on a black felt background, informing that SAWA had moved to another area of Bangkok. Of course none of his former students would  be around anyway, had their Bachelor’s degrees now, would be back in China or studying elsewhere .He wondered if Jane still lived behind the building, but didn’t feel he’d known her well enough to go checking.

     Instead, while his family had lunch at one of those ubiquitous sidewalk cafes, he took leave for a bit and followed the soi up to the fork, then went up to the cul-de-sac. There was a game in progress. He watched a couple of plays. The players were very young, pre-teens. Five years would be half a lifetime to them. And it was to one about   ten years old that he asked, 

       “What’s that game?”     

      The kid seemed to comprehend the English, said, “Stickball.”.

      “Where do you think it comes from?’

      He shrugged, concentrating on his game.  He was at third, watching a runner on first  that kept taunting the pitcher with lunges

     “Do you think it comes from Chinese?”

     “No, but I heard there were some Chinese here once a long time ago who played it.”

      “Oh?”

      “They were just here a while and learned to play it from us.”

      “Didn’t come from American baseball?”

       “No, my  brother and his friends started stickball right here on this street.”

       “What do you know about the Chinese who played it here?”

       “There was one who hit a lot of home runs.”

      “But the game didn’t come from them?

      “No, they saw us playing it.”

      “Do you know the name of the home run hitter.”

      “Yeah, it was …I think…Ruth…or Little Ruth.”

      “Little Ruth?”

       “No, more like…Baby…something.”

      There was that unique pop of a spaldeen hit by a stick, and a line drive floated at him that he deftly caught, then threw to first base and got that pesky advancing runner off base and out too.

      “Good play.”.         

      He said, “Thanks mister, but I have a game to play. I can’t keep talking. Maybe the

idea came from baseball,  but stickball is Thai.”