Glowing things

SUNDAY, JULY 3, 2022 C15 Revisiting Fourth of July memories

* Editor’s note: The following is an updated repeat of one of Bob

Dunning’s favorite Fourth of July columns.

For a variety of reasons, the Fourth of July ranks right up with Thanksgiving when I’m asked about my favorite holidays.

While most holidays come and go, my memories of the Fourth go back to my days as a kid growing up in this very small town that had but one elementary school and absolutely no stop lights.

There was a kiddie parade in those days, but it was always led by the flag-bearing color guard from the local ag campus. I presume they were in ROTC, but I can’t say for sure.

One year, however, they got called away at the last minute, and my brother, who was carrying a very large flag as part of a family “Spirit of ’76” entry, was summoned into service to lead the parade. It was the first peacetime draft in American history.

In the evening, we’d all gather at Aggie Field (now Toomey) for all sorts of “community” awards, plus the fireworks. The high school was practically across the street, but it didn’t have a suitable place for people to get together.

As they went through the several awards, the tension would mount about who would win. I think I was all of 8 when I realized that batting .237 in the Davis Little League was not going to earn me “Davis Athlete of the Year” recognition in this decidedly hometown ceremony.

My Fourth of July experiences haven’t all been in Davis, though they seem to have been remarkably similar no matter where I was.

One exception was the Fourth I spent on a tennis excursion in Scotland, where the locals kept referring to me and my playing partner, a Davis legend named Brett Stone, as “Yanks.” They also served haggis for dinner and there were absolutely no fireworks to be found. But at least the natives were friendly despite having ugly Americans in their midst.

One other year I found myself on foreign soil in Victoria, B.C., with my red-headed bride of six days, expecting to celebrate the Fourth in proper style. We had been there three days earlier for an incredible Canada Day celebration where we sang “O Canada” with the crowd at the Inner Harbour and met Joe Canada himself.

We decided to stay over for the Fourth, only to learn that it’s not a particularly big holiday in the Great North.

My birthplace of Portland is another great place to spend the Fourth, what with the greatest fireworks display on the West Coast erupting for nearly an hour from the exact geographic center of the Columbia River separating Oregon and Washington.

I’ve had memorable Fourths in Salt Lake City and Idaho Falls and Elko and Bend, not to mention getting hopelessly lost on a dirt road at the top of Goat Mountain in Colusa County with the RedHeaded Girl of My Dreams. If you’re going to get lost as darkness falls on the Fourth of July, she’s not a bad choice of company.

But what really got my Fourth of July juices flowing was reading Bruce Gallaudet’s account of the 10-year-old slugger from Woodland who hit three

consecutive home runs in a tight win over the Davis National 9- and 10-year-old All-Stars.

Reminded me of that legendary Davis Little League phenom Jimmy Keylor, who also smacked three home runs in a single game long ago as the Davis AllStars took three giant steps toward Williamsport before finally falling. (It was single elimination in those days.)

In an exhibition game between a pair of Davis teams on the Fourth of July of that same year, I was on the mound in relief, nursing a 5-3 lead — mostly off the powerful bat of Larry Caster — when Keylor came to bat with the bases loaded and two out in the bottom of the final inning.

Keylor was short and compact and incredibly powerful. He used a redwood tree instead of a baseball bat. He was the most feared Little Leaguer in the Sacramento Valley.

I actually considered walking him intentionally to avoid the inevitable. Sure, it would have forced in a run, but I’d still have a 5-4 lead and at least a theoretical chance of pulling out the win. As the crowd sat in hushed silence I threw my very best fastball — at least 25 mph —

straight down the middle. Keylor smiled as it arrived and blasted it halfway to

Dixon, but I did manage to shake his hand as he rounded third and headed for home. Lucky for me, he later became my teammate.

As much as I wished at the time that I’d been able to set him down on strikes or at least induce a long fly ball to center, when I look back now, I wouldn’t change a thing.

What he did that day was memorable. For both of us. — Reach Bob Dunning at bdunning@davisenterprise.net.

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