The middle of July is approaching, and I haven’t thrown a softball all year.

Neither have other members of The Gazette’s once-fearsome softball team. Vacations and prior commitments have replaced some practices; weather has canceled another gathering. This Sunday is another “maybe,” as we’ve already got guys signed up for the travel squad.

But it looks like "probably not."

As a teenager, such a blasphemy against the sport would have never happened. We used to swing the bats all summer.

In Rochester, many of us enrolled in the Kodak Park Athletic Association’s softball program. It was K.P.A.A. for short, and those were the days, for both Kodak and young shortstops, pitchers and outfielders. The Park was booming — digital cameras then were science fiction and film was king. As long as Kodak was rolling in the dough, kids in middle and high school could count on 14 company-sponsored games every summer.

The association handed out team shirts, free team pictures and supplied two umpires for each game. Games started at 9 a.m., 10:35 a.m., 1:15 p.m. and 2:45.

Kodak modeled its program after minor and major league baseball . The top teams played in the American and National League — I guess placement was influenced by past team performances — and there were teams in American Association, Pacific, Piedmont, Pony, Appalachian and other places.

In 1968, my cousin Joe Schauseil drafted me, my brother Tim and kids from our neighborhood — Billy Adams, Louie Pezzulo and Bill Bauer among them — for his team. The Blue Sox went 1-13, and I think the only game we won, the other team forfeited.

Joe — who later became an assistant district attorney in Monroe County and passed away too young in 2002 — should have known we were in trouble from the start. In the team picture, Joe — an often feisty, argumentative redhead — is a study in defiance. He was wearing a game face long before the term became popular, while the rest of us were grinning like simpletons.

You can see a picture of those famous Blue Sox — we even had blue shirts — by clicking HERE.

In 1969, I secured franchise rights for my own team. I persuaded my friend Steve Roberts to play shortstop, and signed up the great power hitter John Moss for the outfield. I pitched, brother Tim played first and holdovers Adams, Bauer and Pezzulo found spots in the lineup. Bill’s brother Bruce was one of our rookies.

The red-shirted Rams finished 10-4, with true flashes of greatness. And at least one dirty trick.

I hate to admit it even today, but Ram management — myself — played favorites. Kodak would routinely “fill out” teams by adding kids who joined without a squad. They were usually orphans for a reason — their softball skills were mostly absent.

Two young kids — I’ll call them the Smith brothers — joined the Rams. I’m giving them fake names in case they read this, have become vindictive and decide to track me down.

Kodak rules said all kids had to play at least three of the game’s seven innings. I could find no safe place to hide them, and balls hit their way in the outfield became double or triples. Before one particularly important game, shortstop Roberts convinced management to call the kids and con them. “It’s raining over here,” I said into the telephone. “You guys better stay home, I doubt we’ll be playing!”

I felt like a rat doing it, but Roberts said it was the only way. An hour later, during warm-ups, we were all surprised to see the Smith brothers walk through the gates to the field. Along with Mr. Smith.

We got them into the lineup, but I don’t think the father was too happy about the whole rotten trick. Neither was Steve Roberts.

The Rams, in all their crimson glory, can be clicked right HERE.

By 1970, we had made Pacific League. The great, long-haired John Moss — he really wasn’t much of a home run threat, but he swung hard — was back. So was Pat Stack, our catcher; Bill Bauer, now at second base; brother Tim, moved to third; and Louie Pezzulo, shipped out to center. We picked up Steve Magee, a whiz with the glove, for first. Alan Carpenter, who never missed at shortstop, was another upgrade.

And Kodak, perhaps repentant for sticking me with all those rookies the year before, actually stocked us with two guys who knew what they were doing. I still remember their names — Mike Hryzak and Tom Johnson.

The green shirts looked good on us, and the Oaks — I think we were named after the Oakland Oaks of the Pacific Coast League — looked good on the field.

I was 15, and hit one of my athletic high points — two home runs in one game. They weren’t real shots, just far enough past the other team’s outfielders to allow quick trips around the bases. Tim started a triple play, and also hit some fine balls. Louie made nice catches in center.

In one game, Bill Bauer was ruled safe at second in a close play. The honest Bauer walked off the bag; he said he was really out. The second baseman tagged him, and Bill was gone, this time for real. We never let him forget it; no wonder Bill is now a lawyer — and former U.S. magistrate judge — back home.

We were 10-3, and nearly a lock for the league championship game, when we lost the last game of the season. That meant a playoff against a team called the Pioneers — after just an hour’s break.

My brother Tim, the great John Moss and all the other guys piled into the nearby Carroll’s hamburger joint off Ridge Road for shakes and hamburgers. I moped around the field and worried.
We lost the playoff game. The season was over.

There’s a rare picture of the somber Oaks — we had learned our lesson from Joe Schauseil — by clicking HERE.

I’ve lost touch with most of the guys, but expect to hear from Bill Bauer. He wasn’t too hard to find on the Internet, and maybe I can reach Steve Magee, the great John Moss and Louie Pezzulo.

Maybe I can find the Pioneers, too. After 38 years, I think they owe us a rematch.