Take me out to the ball game, Take me out with the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack. I don’t care if I ever get back…
Nebraska’s fascination with the boys of summer most likely began after Alexander Cartwright’s modernized game gained favor and swept the frontier in the mid-1800s. Omaha’s first organized club assembled in 1867.
In 1869, the Cincinnati Red Stockings stopped in Omaha, pounding the locals, 65 – 1. The Omaha catcher vanished during the 7th inning stretch. His teammates couldn’t find a replacement.
A decade later, the Northwestern League came together, including Davenport, Rockford, Omaha and Dubuque. This lineup formed the first minor league not located on the East Coast.
Around the turn of the century, baseball promoter Guy Green coordinated the formation of the Nebraska Indians baseball team, scouting players from the schools at both Genoa and Santee, as well as the Omaha and Winnebago reservations.
The team fireballed its way across the Cornhusker state, playing local town teams and creating a Wild West ambiance for zealous crowds. This team overcame its initial flash-in-the-pan persona, becoming a top exhibition team.
Nebraska has fielded its share of Hall of Famers, too. Add these names to the scorecard: Grover Cleveland Alexander, who was born in Elba; Tilden’s favorite son, Richie Ashburn; Omaha native Wade Boggs; “Wahoo Sam” Crawford from – you guessed it – Wahoo; Bob Gibson, Omaha native; manager Billy Southworth was born in Harvard; and Arthur “Dazzy” Vance grew up in Hastings.
Currently, Nebraska natives Alex Gordon and Joba Chamberlain make headlines for KC and NY Yankees, respectively.
My dad and I share an appreciation for the game. When I was a kid, we’d travel to Hastings and watch the local American Legion team. Nothing better on a summer evening than watching baseball, eating a cherry Sno-cone and battling a few mosquitoes. (My husband would disagree. He doesn’t understand the allure of the game.)
But the stories about baseball that intrigue me come from my dad when he was a kid. He talks about the town teams from Wausa and Crofton, games against farm team players, some-day major leaguers, where the love of the game reverberated as loudly as the crack of the wooden bat.
These were the games that brought communities together. These were the games that provided entertainment and seemed to connect everyone. Something bigger was at stake during these simpler times, and baseball was the vehicle that united them all.
I remember Wausa’s ballpark on summer Sunday evenings, or sometimes during the week (Wednesdays, maybe?), watching the locals swing and sometimes miss or send a grand slam over the outfield fence.
Even a generation later, a baseball game was a social event, where neighbors and friends congregated to cheer on the neighbors and friends on the field.
When the last batter was called out, we walked back to my grandparents’ house, the glow of field lights filtering above cottonwood trees, slowly fading into darkness.
Baseball is a tradition that’s as American – and Nebraskan – as hot dogs and apple pie.








