| | | We were purists. I mean, we even knew Wiffle Ball had no "h" in it. We knew we were playing damn near every day, every summer.
|  | | Mark Sansaver, left, impressed Kenny Mayne with his speed and athletic ability during their youth. |
Each Wiffle Ball field had its own unique ground rules. At the Whidden's house, two doors down, a ball hit into the lake on the fly was a home run, into the lake on one bounce, a triple, and so on. Always, it was "pitcher's hand" for an out on the lead runner.
Ghost runners were made necessary on many of the fields due to limitations of space. But at my parents' house, the most sacred park in the Wiffle Ball solar system we traveled
in the 1960s and '70s, who needed a ghost runner when we had Mark Sansaver?
Thirty years later, it is Mark who could use a ghost runner.
Mark and his family had moved to the Seattle area (about eight doors down from us) when he was 10 years old. Ten was the number of children in that family, all of them
athletic, well-muscled. Mark was the youngest boy and showed the most athletic potential.
His speed was legendary at Star Lake Elementary for he was the only true rival to Terese Rehfeldt when it came time to run the 30-yard-dash during the President's Council on
Physical Fitness Test. Terese was pretty. And she was pretty damn fast.
Thirty years later, the precise memory is unclear as to whether Mark really beat Terese. Maybe through the Freedom of Information Act, I could force the federal government to reveal the official record on the speed figures from 1969. Maybe it's all on paper somewhere in our permanent records.
|  | | Terese Rehfeldt could outrun just about every kid at Star Lake Elementary. |
I do remember being an awkward 10-year-old, all hands and feet, yet at the same time appreciative of the true physical talent possessed by my classmates.
Just before flying to Seattle for Baseball's All-Star event in July, I called Montana to check on how Mark was doing with his Muscular Dystrophy. His wife, Kelli,
while trying to remain positive, imparted the harsh truth. Mark now needs braces much of the time to support his deteriorating muscles. There's no guarantee he'll end up in
a wheelchair like his brother Bill Jr. But there's no cure either.
Kelli spoke of the emotional toll: Mark's contemplation of the fact he isn't (physically) the same man she married 17 years ago, not the exact same person who fathered
three wonderful girls (none has signs of the disease). He's not the same physical specimen who played college football, and he's no longer the 10-year-old who challenged Terese Rehfeldt on a cement playground, as the rest of us stood in awe.
By some curious confluence of fate in the span of a few July days, I would speak with Mark's wife about his MD, I would stand on the Whidden's Wiffle Ball field (they call it
a yard these days) and light off fireworks on the Fourth of July, carrying the last of my father's ashes (his wish), and I would meet with some old high school friends in Seattle the night before the All-Star Game. One of them would be Terese Rehfeldt, now a mother of three. I've known her since kindergarten, but I hadn't seen her since high school.
The morning of the All-Star Game, I interviewed Dale Earnhardt Jr., who has nothing to do with baseball except for the fact he drives for Budweiser and beer fuels baseball. As we concluded, Earnhardt Jr.'s PR man said, "If there's anything we can ever do for you ..."
And I said, "As a matter of fact ..."
|  | | If anybody deserved good seats to Baseball's All-Star Game, it was Josh Hope and his mother. |
My sister, Leslie, works for the Muscular Dystrophy Association and had asked me the night before about the remote chance of landing a couple tickets for the sold-out game. She was hoping to help 12-year-old Josh Hope, who is confined to a wheelchair. She told me she knew there'd be little chance at this point to get the tickets. She did not know that PR men, particularly PR men for beer companies, always have extra tickets.
Nor did she know that a friend on the Mariners' staff would lead me to a good man in the ticketing department who would turn that pair of 300-level tickets into 100-level tickets directly behind home plate.
Josh and his mother, Bambi, had just been given an eviction notice (of less than 30 days, the bastards) to vacate her rented home. (That eviction notice was later rescinded.) Muscular Dystrophy or not, they deserved home plate tickets as much as anyone.
During pregame ceremonies I sought them out.
As I wished them well, they turned their attention back to the field. At precisely that moment, the grandson of Roberto Clemente, one of my favorite players as a child, was running the bases to honor his grandfather and all Roberto Clemente Award winners (for community service). On the center-field screen at Safeco Field, the grandson's image,
as he circled the bases, was set over that of Roberto Clemente.
Many people began to tear up. I was one. And maybe I wasn't alone putting picture upon picture upon picture.
I saw a 12-year-old boy who cannot walk smile for a young boy running to honor his grandfather. And I saw Mark Sansaver running against Terese Rehfeldt. I saw ghost
runners when once we didn't need them.
Kenny Mayne is a commentator for ESPN.
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