You’ll never see a baseball game being played at the corner of Science Park Road and West College Avenue. So why is there a scoreboard there, with no game to score? Glad you asked…
Once upon a time, there was a field on that location — a diamond called “Gill Field” where Little League was played from the 1950s until July of 1993. Back then, the old Science Park Road did not connect to College Avenue, and motorists were forced to make a jog or two before reaching College. But with the power of eminent domain, the state claimed the land from American Legion Post 245, brought in their dump trucks and created a more efficient route. And the Little League moved on to other locations — especially an area along Bristol Avenue with two adjoining fields (one of which is the ‘new Gill Field’). These days, boys and girls from State College Borough and surrounding townships play ball there.
Meanwhile, the Legion retained 1.6 acres of property on the east of the new Science Park Road, and on that land sat some billboards and the seemingly useless scoreboard. Barry Scerbo, now retired from his career as head of Penn State’s Food Service, was the secretary for the Legion’s Board of Directors in the mid-90s. He recalls someone from PennDOT saying, “The scoreboard is part of your property. Would you like us to take it down?”
That’s when the Legion leaders made a strange decision that has turned out to be stellar. Why not retain the scoreboard just for the memories — and to honor Phil Gill Sr., the founder of the league and past commander of the Legion post? And why not ask Lamar Advertising, the company that rents the billboard space, to maintain the scoreboard?
So the Board stood up for the board. And Lamar has faithfully refaced it three times over the last 20 years. “This is a very important piece of history for State College,” says Scerbo. “It’s just like what we do as a veterans’ organization — helping people remember their past.”
All kinds of memories trace back to old Gill Field. The sense of freedom for a 12-year old to ride his bike from town to the field. The hilarity of chasing some kid’s dog around the outfield while play was halted. The simple joy of licking a cherry popsicle after a win or a loss. Here are some of my own memories and those of some old friends:
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A Kid’s Discoveries. Dave Baker, got more than his share of excitement at good ol’ Gill. Formerly the sports information director at Penn State and now an associate athletic director, Baker still remembers the wonder of his first organized athletic experience. He adored the uniforms, always making sure that his was clean and unwrinkled, although he admits that “they were made from some kind of wool and definitely scratchy.” He began lifelong friendships with teammates and opponents. And he got his first taste of sports-related vocations by keeping statistics and serving as game announcer after he aged out of Little League. “Doug MacDonald hired me to do box scores at the Centre Daily Times,” notes Baker, “because he saw that my numbers always added up. That’s how I got started in sports journalism.”
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A Special Setting. “I think Gill Field was one of the nicer fields in the area, sitting down there in a little hollow,” says Tom Fry, a pitcher and shortstop for the Elks team in the mid-1960s. “We had in-ground dugouts, they were cool. And people parked their cars on the hill beyond the fence.” Although those cars were a unique feature, they weren’t always a positive. Pity the poor pitcher who gave up a home run and then had to listen to a batter’s parent honking a horn in celebration.
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Impressive People, Funny Folks. Jim Menoher, another member of the mid-60s Elks team, recalls playing an all-star game against Suburban, the league that then served kids from townships around State College. Not only does he marvel over the caliber of baseball that was played; he can’t help but mention that three future medical doctors were playing that day — Jeff Baker, Paul Suhey and John Sefter. Meanwhile, Fry probably knew all those future doctors, but his memories focus on people who made him laugh. In particular, he remembers Bill Curley, Sr. — father of six ball-playing sons named Steve, John, Mike, Tim, Bill and Terry. Curley knew his baseball, but Fry remembers him for kidding around with opposing coaches and players. “Mr. Curley would always spit tobacco juice on my baseball shoes.”
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Joys and Sorrows. As for me, I’ll never forget the shock of hitting a home run at the age of 10 while competing with a bunch of 11 and 12-year-olds. Truth be told, I had a pathetic batting average of perhaps .125. As I faced pitcher Danny Infield on this occasion, I had already struck out in my mind. But Danny made a big mistake. He threw me a change-up, and that pitch was just my speed. The ball came off my 28-inch bat with a force that I will never forget, landing in the small forest beyond left field. Would you like to hear “Horlacher’s Law?” Here it is: Never throw a changeup to a hopeless hitter.
No thrill from baseball could possibly match the sadness that came from a tragedy that same season. My Elks team was led by a 12-year-old named Norman “Nibs” Gordon, a fiery competitor with worlds of talent and a batting average that exceeded mine by at least 400 points. Midway through the season, Nibs’ father was involved in an automobile accident, and he passed away in the hospital just a day or two later. What do you say when you’re 10 years old, and your teammate suffers that kind of heartbreak? Even today, my happy Gill Field thoughts are accompanied by that sad memory.
If you’ve never noticed it before, take a glance as you approach State College from the west. You’ll see it — the scoreboard that never has a score but always has a purpose.
“It makes me happy to see that the scoreboard is still up there, so I can point it out to my kids and now my grandkids,” says Andy Pigott, once an outfielder for Metzger’s and now assistant pastor at the State College Chinese Alliance Church. “That’s where I used to play Little League baseball.”
