Every childhood has a summer that refuses to fade. For Peter Scariano, that summer was 1957, a season full of baseball, laughter, scraped knees, and small moments that still glow decades later. If some summers are chapters, the summer of ’57 was an entire book.
Peter was only a TBD player for the Tigers that year, a fill-in position created to give him a chance after the draft mix-up left him teamless. He wasn’t officially rostered, but he showed up to every practice, every game, every drill. And it turned out to be the greatest twist of luck he could have asked for.
Because that was the summer he discovered catching. He fell in love with the position immediately. The way the game looked from behind the plate. The connection to the pitcher. The responsibility. The grit. The dirt. The bruises. It clicked. Catching became his home, a role he would play for nearly a decade. And in the summer of ’57, it felt like destiny.
The Tigers practiced or played two or three times a week at Hupp Field, a place that felt like the heart of the Clear Ridge community. Fathers helped build dugouts, mothers ran the concession stand, and freshly chalked lines and manicured grass made the field feel almost magical. Opening Day and the community games were always events the kids would remember, filled with excitement, anticipation, and the energy of dozens of neighborhood families watching and cheering.
Garfield Ridge was divided by Archer Avenue, with each side fostering its own group of ballplayers. Rivalries flared during summer games, especially when the North and South sides faced off for bragging rights. The games were always competitive, full of challenges, and moments that tested every kid on the field.
That summer, Peter learned more than baseball skills. He discovered his place on the team, his connection to his teammates, and the satisfaction of playing a position he loved. He felt the thrill of being part of something larger, a community shaped by shared games, laughter, and determination.
And through it all, his dream of someday owning the Wilson A2000 remained alive. The glove was more than a piece of equipment. It was aspiration, a symbol of dedication, and a promise of what could come. Every time he caught a ball or practiced with a friend, that dream lingered in the back of his mind, fueling his love for the game.
The summer of ’57 was unforgettable, full of joy, lessons, and the kind of stories that only childhood can provide. It was a time when baseball was more than a sport. It was life’s compass. For Peter, it was the summer he discovered who he was on the field, what he loved, and how far determination and passion could take him. Decades later, it remains a part of him, sun-soaked, dust-covered, and unforgettable.