Mathematics Lesson

Decimal Equivalents of Fractions

1/16 = 0.0625

I’m guessing that I learned about the decimal equivalents of fractions in the fifth or sixth grade. I know that I knew some of the simple decimal equivalents by then. I’m sure we started with the easy ones: the fraction ½ is equivalent to the decimal 0.5, and ¼ is equal to 0.25. We then passed on to more complex ideas. For example, 1/3 does not have a simple decimal equivalent. It is equal to 0.33333… and the threes go on forever.

There is one decimal equivalent burned into my memory in the summer of 1949 and carried in there to this day:

1/16 = 0.0625.

I was good at numbers. That’s how I got to be the “scorer” on our baseball team. This was summer vacation in Baltimore. The local schools had teams in leagues at the various playgrounds, and our neighborhood had a team in the 12-14 division, that being the age range of the players. The scorer was responsible for keeping the detailed record of each game, the results of each player’s “at-bats,” and the accumulated statistics for the season—primarily our batting averages and homeruns.

I was a better scorer than a player. At the end of each game I would sit in the dirt with my notebook and pencil, lean against the chain-link backstop behind home plate, and bring the “stats” up to date. Each week a new column would reflect my teammates’ progress.  In our second game of the season Jimmy Crossman got two hits in three at-bats, so he went from 3 for 5 (3/5=0.600) after our first game to 5 for 8 (0.625). The following week: just 1 for 4 and down his averaged plunged to 6 for 12 or 0.500. Still—a respectable batting average.

Of course we didn’t report or speak of our averages as decimals. Jimmy was “batting 500,” not “zero point five oh oh.” That same summer, real ballplayers had much lower averages. We would read The Sporting News each week to find that Jackie Robinson was batting 340. Not as good as Jimmy, but we figured Jackie faced tougher pitchers (Harry Brecheen of the St. Louis Cardinals) than Jimmy did (Ed Scoglin of the All Saints Blue Rockets.)

My stats were easier to figure, but harder to brag about. Or even mention. As the season progressed I went from 0 for 3 (0.000) the first game to 0 for 6 (0.000) after two games to 0 for 10 (still 0.000) after the third. I sat out a few games in July. I wasn’t officially “benched” since we had no bench—we just kneeled in the dirt on our side of the field, waiting for our turns at bat and calling encouragement to each teammate as he came to the plate. And I kept score.

So there I was, in the middle of August, coming to bat in the eighth inning with a continuous string of zeroes after fifteen at bats. Not that I hadn’t gotten on base. In the five games that I had played to that point, I had walked five times. As the shortest player on the field, I had a pretty small strike zone. If I just left my bat on my shoulder I could draw a walk. Our coach begged me not to swing, but what was the point of standing at the plate if you didn’t take a shot at it? (ANSWER: It was the only way I would get on base.)

I walked up to the “plate.”

There was no plate, actually. We just scratched an outline of home plate in the dirt. In view of my lack of success to that point in the season, I was not anxious to face this pitcher, or any other, so I stalled for time. I knocked the dirt out of my cleats. There wasn’t much dirt there. The dirt was between the bases. I rarely had occasion to run the bases.

The “ump,” somebody’s older brother, said “Batter up!”

I took a practice swing and stepped up to the plate. The pitcher was smirking. The first pitch was high. I swung at it anyway. I always had hopes that the pitcher would hit my bat, and I knew that would not happen if I did not swing frequently.

“Strike One!”

I stepped back and adjusted my cap. It was late afternoon, toward the end of summer, and the sun was low enough to be in my face. I squinted, looked down the line toward the third base “coach,” who was just one of my teammates prepared for the unlikely event that I would get on base and need his advice.

I blinked, and saw my father standing on the sideline. This was the first time he had come to see me play. He must have gotten away from work early. I was not happy that he was there. It was bad enough that I embarrassed myself in front of my teammates; actually I was used to it, and the other players regarded me as a good sport. The embarrassment was in my head, not in theirs.

But now my father would see how poor a player I was.

The ump muttered, “Batter up.”

The next pitch hit the dirt about three feet in front of the plate. I swung anyway.

“Strike two!”

My teammates were shouting encouragement.

  

 

Our team, in the Summer of ’49.  I’m in the back row, third from the left.

In the gap between Bobby Jacobs and Ward Dawson.

I think I’m kneeling.

“Good swing!” someone hollered.

It was a good swing. The ball just wasn’t anywhere near my bat. (We were beating the other team by 6 to 2. Encouragement came easily under those conditions.)

I never saw the next pitch. My eyes were closed. I just swung the bat as hard as I could. There was a loud—surprising—“Thwack.”

I opened my eyes and saw the third basemen leap to his right, toward the base, his glove hand extended, as the ball shot past him and landed just inches inside of the foul line. The umpire shouted, “Fair ball!”

That woke me up, and I started running. I rounded first base and I looked out toward left field. The ball was still rolling, well past the left fielder, who had been playing me short, not expecting me to get the ball into the outfield at all. I rounded second base as the fielder retrieved the ball. He turned and threw toward third base. I got to third, panting, just ahead of the throw.

My first hit of the season—a triple!

My teammates were shouting and laughing. I looked over at my father. He had a big grin on his face. He was hollering something, but I didn’t hear it. I didn’t need to.

A triple!

That’s how my season ended. One in sixteen.

0.0625

I rounded it up to 0.063.

My summer of ’49.

I batted “63.”

But it was a triple!