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!
