Back in the “good ol’ days” there seemed to be local sports legends oozing out of every small town nook and cranny in America. Mexico, PA, was no exception. The latest census recorded 398 people residing in this tiny hamlet. It is one of many small towns in Juniata County, a farm heavy rural county in the center of Pennsylvania. My dad, John Clark, was born there in 1929. By the late 1940’s, my dad —Johnny to friends and family— was quickly becoming a local legend for his ability to play baseball.

My dad was a multi-sport athlete at Juniata Joint High School, but he made the most noise with his thundering bat on the baseball diamond. While playing Legion ball, my dad’s prodigious power and catching skills behind the plate started turning heads. He was known to draw roars from the crowd, not only for his towering home runs, but for his showmanship.

One old timer told me the locals would stick around for the entire game just to make sure they didn’t miss any of that “Johnny Clark entertainment.” He went on to share one such story. My dad came to the plate and hit one of his trademark blasts. The home run wasn’t the only thing that had the crowd on their feet. You see, the batter preceding my dad also hit a home run. He was called out for allegedly missing a base during his home run trot. Therefore when my dad hit his home run he proceeded to stop at each base, jump high in the air, and come righteously stomping down upon the bag with both feet. Upset about the call on his teammate, my dad was proving a point as only he could. The crowd was electrified and roared with approval. The umpire was much less amused, and as my dad crossed home plate he was tossed from the game.

My dad lived a simple life and considered himself as just a kid from the sticks who loved baseball. That passion for the game, coupled with his God given ability, would soon turn the right heads and give him the opportunity of a lifetime.

In 1949 my dad would embark on a four year journey through the St. Louis Cardinals minor league farm system. He would never reach the pinnacle of playing in the major leagues, nor would most of his teammates on those minor league squads. It was tough to keep moving up the ladder in those days. Additionally, a player couldn’t afford to keep playing minor league baseball forever. Eventually most players had to make a decision as to when it was time to give up the dream and move on with life. In 1952 my dad made the decision it was time to move back home and get a job. He would often say that even though he didn’t make it, playing minor league baseball was a great part of his life.

My dad started his Cardinals minor league career not far from home, playing for the Lebanon(PA) Chix. He got off to a solid, if not spectacular, start with the Chix. To give some perspective, my dad’s contract called for him to make $160 per month. The next season would send my dad to Johnson City, Tennessee.

In 1950, my dad had his best season playing for the Johnson City Cardinals. Playing as the team’s primary catcher, he hit .302 with 13 doubles, 2 triples, and 5 round trippers. My dad’s season was promising enough to put his name on the St. Louis Cardinals radar. An article appearing in the Columbus(GA) Enquirer stated the following:

“Clark is praised by the entire scouting force of the St. Louis Cardinals. Although short on experience, the rangy youngster is rated to go places in organized baseball.”

The 1951 season saw my dad start in Columbus as the Cardinals top catching prospect, then split time between Lynchburg(VA) and Hamilton, Ontario. Family and friends back home followed my dad’s career closely. During the 1951 season two busloads of fans left Juniata County and headed for Canada to see him suit up for Hamilton. After the game, the Juniata County faithful presented my dad with a watch as a token of appreciation for his hard work and dedication.

Unfortunately the 1951 season saw him struggle. Just like that, my dad dropped several rungs on the Cardinals catching ladder. A demotion to Allentown(PA) followed for the 1952 season. An injury plagued season in Allentown left my dad with a decision.

My dad became disenchanted with what he saw as a fickle Cardinals organization. He contacted a friend who had some connections around baseball and asked him to put out feelers to other teams. An offer came from the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs offered to pay him $225 per month to sign a minor league deal with them.

After considering the offer, my dad decided that his baseball career had gone as far as it was meant to go. After discussions with his parents, he decided to put away his catcher’s gear and move on with life.

My dad had no regrets. He cherished those years playing baseball and forging friendships. Those years left him with a plethora of great stories to pass on to his own kids, and kids he would later coach in Little League and Babe Ruth baseball.

Baseball was different in those days. There was no glitz or glamour. There was no big money. Bus rides were bumpy and uncomfortable. The minor leaguers got hand me down uniforms from the big club. My dad got Erv Dusak’s jersey and Harry “The Hat” Walker’s pants. I still have them to this day.

Hitting a home run at the home ballpark came with a perk the player’s loved, considering their meager salary. A home run earned the player a free steak dinner at the local steakhouse.

As a catcher, it was my dad’s job to call the pitches. He was confident in this part of the game. If a pitcher refused to throw the pitch he was calling, my dad would simply tell the batter what was coming. After that, the pitcher would not shake off my dad’s call again.

 Hitting wasn’t overanalyzed as it is today. My dad’s manager in Johnson City, Ben Catchings, had a simple philosophy.

“If you want to be a hittin’, you better be a swingin’.”

Life was also much different in those days, especially for a kid never traveled outside the Juniata County lines. My dad had no idea —until a teammate explained it to him in Johnson City— why black people walked on one side of the street and white people on the other side. That was simply a way of life in the South in the early 1950’s. Needless to say, my dad grew up quickly during this time.

There were two close encounters with Hall of Fame players for my dad. The first came when he caught an inter-squad game in spring training and shook hands with Stan Musial. The second came while catching another spring training game versus Boston, and they got the great Ted Williams out.

My dad’s favorite part of playing minor league baseball was making friendships and playing alongside a lot of really good players. Of his nine teammates that made the major leagues, Kenny Boyer had the most successful career. Boyer is the best Cardinal to not make the Hall of Fame. Boyer was an MVP, 5 time gold glover, and 11 time all star. Another teammate, Fred Koenig, would go on to have a lengthy coaching career both in the minor and major leagues.

In 1976, while attending a Pirates-Cardinals game in Pittsburgh with his family, my dad spotted Koenig talking to manager Red Schoendienst beside the dugout. He went down and Koenig recognized him right away. Koenig got the team to sign a baseball for both me and my sister. It had been 25 years, but those connections remained intact.

Although he never made it to the major leagues, my dad still got to experience a journey that most ballplayers don’t get to take. And to think it all got started on the ball fields in and around tiny Mexico, PA. It was there a tall, lanky kid developed his flair, skill, and passion for the game of baseball. It is pretty clear that in Juniata County in the late 40’s and early 50’s, John Clark —my dad— was unequivocally a local sports legend.