By BLAKE SOK (Special to Pickin’ Splinters)
It was a picture-perfect slice of Americana. The roar of interstate 490 was humming in the distance. Mothers and fathers pushed colorful strollers with one hand while holding steaming card board cups in the other. The early sun had burned he morning dew from Field 3 at Cobbs Hill Park as the five and six-year olds gathered for opening day of tee ball season. A handful of adults tried repeatedly to gather and direct the aspiring ballplayers in some sort of orderly fashion. These coaches’ efforts only served as entertainment for the sidelined coffee holders and brought laughter from them.
The defensive team took the field dressed in an unmatched colorful collection of jerseys and hats. For anyone with an artistic mind it would have appeared as if someone had taken a couple handfuls of M&Ms and broadcasted them upon the baseball pallet. A handful of the young ballplayers chose to stay close to their parents on the sidelines with firm grips on parents’ legs, unsure of this strange environment. The game was about to start and most of the competitors had a look of confused anticipation in their widened eyes.
The hitting team took turns swatting at a bleached white baseball that sat upon an oversized tee. The eventual swings resulted in varying degrees of contact and often the hitter stood still in amazement that he had touched the ball as his eyes searched for his parents for acknowledgement.
A diminutive boy clad in a crisp NY Yankee jersey and hat approached home plate. He sheepishly walked toward a nearby coach. The coach bent at the waist and turned his head in order to hear the child’s words. After their conversation, as requested the coach removed the hitting tee from the home plate area and the young ballplayer took position in the batter’s box. Another coach who had been patiently waiting delivered a pitch that the young ballplayer immediately jumped on, sending it back in the direction from which it came. Instinctively the young pinstriper raced for first base.
The baseball somehow missed any of the four pitchers or six middle infielders. The hitter without hesitation planted his foot on first base and continued to second while the mayhem of ball retrieval now continued in center field. Finally, one alert outfielder picked up the pearl and now franticly ran with it to second base. The batter turned runner arrived at the base and executed a clinically precise but totally unnecessary slide that would have made Jackie Robinson proud.
So began the baseball journey of Ernie Clement. His bat and glove would become Ernie’s traveling companion as he criss-crossed the country in the following years.
His journey that began at Cobbs Hill would see him play on area fields with names like Odenbach, Buckland and Nietopski with teammates (Ryan) Brown, (Aiden) Falk and (Alex) Wasserman. The fields would eventually turn into stadiums with names of Davenport, TD Ameritrade and Mark Light and teammates would morph into (Josh) Donaldson, (Francisco) Lindor and (Oscar) Mercado. The ball on the tee would become triple-digit heaters and the steaming cardboard cups of steam would be replaced by $15 cans of over-priced craft beers.
And it all started with a five-year old boy ……..on a ball field ……at Cobbs Hill Park…… with Interstate 490 humming in the distance. 
Remember those Brighton boys: great kids, terrific team, wonderful coaches! Wishing you all continued success.