hayseedâraised in a three-bedroom farmhouse
with a trap door that led from the kitchen to the fruit cellar in case of tornadoes. Fellerâs father was a farmer, growing corn and wheat, and from early on the old man was sold on his sonâs ability to throw a baseball very, very fast. A belief that would spur Feller on to become one of the best teenage prodigies in sports history.
When young Bobby was 5 years old, he would fire a rubber ball back to his father with such velocity that Mr. Feller had to employ a couch pillow for protection. Errant throws also loosened the plaster on the living room wall. At the age of 10, Fellerâs father gave him his first baseball uniform. Even though it didnât have a number or name stitched on the back, it was made of flannel, just like the major-league models at the time, and it came with a matching hat and stirrups. By this time Feller already had a bat of his own and two glovesâa Rogers Hornsby model and a Ray Schalk catcherâs mitt.
Most parents would have stopped there. But with his son already considered the best shortstop in the county, Bill Feller decided to take things to another level. He dug up part of the pastureland, put up a fence to keep out the livestock, and built bleachers and a scoreboard. He formed a local team called Oakview (named after the timber and a view of the Raccoon River less than a mile away). Games were played on Sundays during the summer, with admission being 25 centsâ35 cents for doubleheaders. It was âa field of dreamsâ almost a half century before W. P. Kinsella penned his famous novel that was made into the movie starring Kevin Costner.
The Oakview ballclub had some of the best players in the area and competed against teams from nearby Des Moines and other Iowa towns. For the most part, the Oakview roster was made up of players in their late teens or early 20s. The lone exception was Feller, who was 13. Father and son were convinced, even then, that he had a good shot at playing major-league baseball.
âHe and I were in it together,â Feller remembers. âIt wasnât like he was pushing me to do it. It wasnât like he was a stage mother or anything like that. I wanted to play ball and he did everything he could to
help me. Later on, people made it sound like I was his puppet or something like that. Nothing could be further from the truth.â
Unlike the pampered sports prodigies one sees today, Feller still had plenty of chores around the farm to do growing up. He says he practiced in âa block of time here and there and all of a sudden I had an incredibly strong arm for my age. This made it possible for me to be known as a young phenom throughout Iowa.â
Feller fed the hogs, milked the cows, picked corn, pumped water, and toted bales of hay. The manual labor made his legs and arms strong, which years later he said was âexactly what a pitcher needs to be successful in the major leagues. This type of natural exercise was the best in the world, and the fact that my arm became strong was just a side benefit. The main reward was I knew I was helping my parents out and that meant the most to me.
âLater on, when I heard more about Walter Johnson and his story, I realized that this was something we had in common. Growing up the way we did made us strong on the mound.â
Â
Â
A late winter wind buffets the redbrick building behind the backstop at Shirley Povich Field in Bethesda. Tarps cover home plate, as well as the pitching mound, and on harsh afternoons like this itâs hard to imagine that spring and another baseball season are almost here. Up in the press box, though, the hot-stove conversation is crackling. Even in hibernation, the national pastime lends itself to not only whatâs on the horizon but whatâs gone down in the past. Such a nod to history has Bruce Adams explaining once again how his team got its nickname, the Big Train.
A decade ago,
with a trap door that led from the kitchen to the fruit cellar in case of tornadoes. Fellerâs father was a farmer, growing corn and wheat, and from early on the old man was sold on his sonâs ability to throw a baseball very, very fast. A belief that would spur Feller on to become one of the best teenage prodigies in sports history.
When young Bobby was 5 years old, he would fire a rubber ball back to his father with such velocity that Mr. Feller had to employ a couch pillow for protection. Errant throws also loosened the plaster on the living room wall. At the age of 10, Fellerâs father gave him his first baseball uniform. Even though it didnât have a number or name stitched on the back, it was made of flannel, just like the major-league models at the time, and it came with a matching hat and stirrups. By this time Feller already had a bat of his own and two glovesâa Rogers Hornsby model and a Ray Schalk catcherâs mitt.
Most parents would have stopped there. But with his son already considered the best shortstop in the county, Bill Feller decided to take things to another level. He dug up part of the pastureland, put up a fence to keep out the livestock, and built bleachers and a scoreboard. He formed a local team called Oakview (named after the timber and a view of the Raccoon River less than a mile away). Games were played on Sundays during the summer, with admission being 25 centsâ35 cents for doubleheaders. It was âa field of dreamsâ almost a half century before W. P. Kinsella penned his famous novel that was made into the movie starring Kevin Costner.
The Oakview ballclub had some of the best players in the area and competed against teams from nearby Des Moines and other Iowa towns. For the most part, the Oakview roster was made up of players in their late teens or early 20s. The lone exception was Feller, who was 13. Father and son were convinced, even then, that he had a good shot at playing major-league baseball.
âHe and I were in it together,â Feller remembers. âIt wasnât like he was pushing me to do it. It wasnât like he was a stage mother or anything like that. I wanted to play ball and he did everything he could to
help me. Later on, people made it sound like I was his puppet or something like that. Nothing could be further from the truth.â
Unlike the pampered sports prodigies one sees today, Feller still had plenty of chores around the farm to do growing up. He says he practiced in âa block of time here and there and all of a sudden I had an incredibly strong arm for my age. This made it possible for me to be known as a young phenom throughout Iowa.â
Feller fed the hogs, milked the cows, picked corn, pumped water, and toted bales of hay. The manual labor made his legs and arms strong, which years later he said was âexactly what a pitcher needs to be successful in the major leagues. This type of natural exercise was the best in the world, and the fact that my arm became strong was just a side benefit. The main reward was I knew I was helping my parents out and that meant the most to me.
âLater on, when I heard more about Walter Johnson and his story, I realized that this was something we had in common. Growing up the way we did made us strong on the mound.â
Â
Â
A late winter wind buffets the redbrick building behind the backstop at Shirley Povich Field in Bethesda. Tarps cover home plate, as well as the pitching mound, and on harsh afternoons like this itâs hard to imagine that spring and another baseball season are almost here. Up in the press box, though, the hot-stove conversation is crackling. Even in hibernation, the national pastime lends itself to not only whatâs on the horizon but whatâs gone down in the past. Such a nod to history has Bruce Adams explaining once again how his team got its nickname, the Big Train.
A decade ago,
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