Towards the end of the obituary was a note that Mr. Dudley had been “supervisor of the summer program at the town playground for thirty years.” This I did know.

The obituary mentioned that James Dudley had been a high-school teacher. He had earned a master’s degree from Boston University. He was “active” in tennis and squash. He played semi-professional baseball. These were things I hadn’t known about him.

I had driven past Mr. Dudley many times over the last few years. But that day I decided to stop. The least I could do was say “thank you” for all those summers. Whether he remembered me or not, I thought he might appreciate it.

A brief item in the local paper announced the death of James Dudley. He was seventy-six. It reminded me of the last time I had seen him alive. He was shuffling along the sidewalk near his home. His dog bounded ahead of him, head high, ears flopping, turning often to check on his master’s painfully slow progress.

Mister D’s Boys

A brief item in the local paper announced the death of James Dudley. He was seventy-six. It reminded me of the last time I had seen him alive. He was shuffling along the sidewalk near his home. His dog bounded ahead of him, head high, ears flopping, turning often to check on his master’s painfully slow progress.

I had driven past Mr. Dudley many times over the last few years. But that day I decided to stop. The least I could do was say “thank you” for all those summers. Whether he remembered me or not, I thought he might appreciate it.

The obituary mentioned that James Dudley had been a high-school teacher. He had earned a master’s degree from Boston University. He was “active” in tennis and squash. He played semi-professional baseball. These were things I hadn’t known about him.

Towards the end of the obituary was a note that Mr. Dudley had been “supervisor of the summer program at the town playground for thirty years.” This I did know.

Mr. Dudley’s summer program was baseball. No arts and crafts, no kickball or dodgeball for him. Seven hours a day, five days a week, twelve weeks a summer, for thirty years, almost every boy in town played baseball with Mr. Dudley.

It wasn’t Little League. We had no uniforms, no fixed teams, no age limits, no skill requirements, no assigned positions. We showed up whenever we could, parked our bikes behind the backstop and played ball. Mr. Dudley was always there. He was never sick, never late. For thousands of us, he was a fixture of our summers, one constant in the chaos of adolescence.

He called me “Cat.” Perhaps that was the way his ears heard the other kids call me “Tap.” I like to think it was because of my pantherlike quickness at scooping up grounders.

Mr. Dudley was a big, solid man with white hair and a sun-worn face. He could throw strikes all morning, grooving them for the little kids and spreading on what he called “a little mustard” for the older boys. Then, in the afternoons of the hottest, muggiest August days, he’d do it all over again.

But even though we played a lot of ball in those summers, and Mr. Dudley would offer mild suggestions now and then (“Gotta keep that tail down” or “You’re stepping in the old bucket”), I never had the impression that he was particularly interested in making skilled ballplayers out of us. Democracy was his real game. Everybody had to play every position at one time or another, and anyone cussing out a kid who dropped a pop-up got a glare from Mr. Dudley that made him shut up quick.

A frequent visitor to Mr. Dudley’s baseball diamond was a huge boy who frightened the rest of us. We all vaguely understood that Joey was “different.” His vocabulary was limited to nonsense syllables, which he uttered with great ferocity whenever he was frustrated.

Sometimes he grabbed one of us by the arm and shook us.

Mr. Dudley would say softly, “Cut it out, Joey, and get up to bat. Let’s see you hit one.”

In spite of his size and strength, Joey was hopeless at baseball. He didn’t want to play in the field, but he liked to bat. So once a day the game stopped, and Joey stepped to the plate. Mr. Dudley underhanded the ball to him and Joey swung wildly. At some point the law of average dictated that he would connect. Then he would lumber around the bases while we kids in the field cheered and allowed the ball to dribble through our legs. Joey always got a “homer” out of it, and then he would retire for the day, calm and happy.

Occasionally a new kid might say, “Aw, does Joey have to play?” Then Mr. Dudley would answer quietly, “Everybody likes to play baseball.”

I heard some older boys call Mr. Dudley “Jim,” so at the advanced age of perhaps eleven, I tried it out on him. He didn’t answer. The look he gave me contained no reproach, just disappointment. I finally settled on “Mister D,” which satisfied both of us.

We were Mister D’s boys, and we came and went. We grew up, went away to school and moved out of town. New boys came along to take our places. I’m not sure when Mr. Dudley retired from his playground job, but I imagine it coincided with the development of organized sports in the area. I guess the town fathers figured there was no need to replace Mr. Dudley. Or maybe there just wasn’t anyone around who wanted to do what he did.

These were the things that went through my mind that day, shortly before Mr. Dudley died, when I decided to stop and say hello. I got out of my car and walked up beside him. “Mister D,” I said.

He stopped and peered at me. He didn’t seem to recognize me, which was all right. He hadn’t seen me for close to thirty years.

“I used to play ball with you in the summer,” I said. “You could pitch all day.”

He nodded, but did not answer.

“So how’s the old wing? Still got that rubber arm? Still spreading a little mustard on that hummer?”

He gave me a little smile. A sad smile, I thought. He whistled softly to his dog and began walking again. I moved along beside him.

“Anyway,” I said lamely, “I wanted to thank you. You gave me a love for baseball. I played in college. I’m still playing softball. I’ve even coached, and I’ve tried to do it your way. Everybody plays all the positions. No favorites.

Baseball has been very important to me. That was your influence.”

He stopped again and put his hand on my arm.

“I know all that,” he said softly. “I keep track of my boys. I know all that, Cat.”

William G. Tapply