In our young minds, we were pioneers, the original “boys of summer”.

That title was owned, rightfully so, by the baseball pros, the “big leaguers” who dusted off their cleats and took to the diamond for another season of “America’s Game.”

They had nothing on the boys from the northern Billings neighborhood I grew up in.

And by nothing, I’m not referring to talent, proper equipment, a national spotlight, etc, etc.

Even though the pros gathered at this time of year in sunny, warm climes like Florida and Arizona, the boys and I had already buckled up our galoshes, climbed the locked fences around the Cobb field practice area, and stomped out base paths in the snow.

It happened every year as I recall, in a time when it sure seemed like winters were longer, colder and had more unending snow than we do these days.

But there was also that brief respite from the frigid temps and knee-high piles of February snow. My folks also said it was a Chinook Wind that blew through overnight and began melting the snow. And even though first, second and third base were in the middle of puddles big enough to entice migrating ducks to land (home base we referred to as the “pool”), that was enough to give us the first uncontrollable burst of Spring Fever.

We would shed the parkas and dig out an old sweatshirt from the closet, old because we knew well the abuse any clothes would take playing baseball in Billings in the middle of February.

We prided ourselves in beating the Little League teams to the playing field and noted with mini-macho bravado that not even the Legion boys were out.

So, with rubber boots instead of cleats, with “old, water-logged” baseballs instead of the rare ones “white ones” we occasionally found in the tall grass of the practice area outfield, along with whatever bats we could dig out of the garage, off we went.

Walking down the freshly shoveled sidewalks toward the ballpark, which was torn down several years ago and replaced with a modern facility, with bats over our shoulders and baseball gloves, not snow mitts in our hands, we were like pied pipers on the move.

Upon seeing the first of us heading to the field of play, others came scurrying from their houses with their hastily gathered equipment. It must have been quite a sight to the neighbors living across the street from the ball park to see a mini-swarm of usually a dozen kids scrambling over the six-foot cyclone fence.

But there we were, it was time for some BASEBALL!! The sport was much bigger in those days before football arguably assumed the title, but baseball will always be considered the national pastime in my mind.

Sometimes kids from the next neighborhood, in the days when there were no cell phones or emails, just word of mouth and regular telephones to spread the news, would join in for a neighborhood versus neighborhood game.

Once underway, sliding into a base was not a tactic, it was a necessity. One young thinker in the neighborhood showed up with an orange-painted ball to make finding it in the outfield a lot easier.

And along with the baseballs that swept across the frozen but rapidly thawing field were, of course, snowballs. The difficulty factor of reaching base safely escalated when forced to dodge snowballs on the way to the bag.

Ground balls were particularly amusing and frustrating. Most often they would roll just a few feet before being swallowed up by the snow that stuck to the ball. Often the infielder running toward the ball would slip and end up on his keister, usually guaranteeing safe passage to the batter.

Sometimes, if there were enough of us playing, cars along North 27th street would slow to a crawl to stare in wonder at the sight.

But often as not, horns were honked and waves of approval would be the response.

Games were not usually decided by any set amount of innings. Usually as the afternoon wore on, the sun would begin to fade and the temperature would begin to drop, most often sharply.

Frozen fingers could no longer grip a baseball or hold a bat. Rubber overshoes would take on a lot of water. That was usually the end of the game. And quite often the snow would return overnight or the next day, making that one rare day in the sunshine all the more memorable.

Spring always came to Billings, eventually.

But as we sat and looked longingly out the window, watching those enormous Spring snowflakes drift slowly to the ground, we knew real baseball weather was on its way.

Playing in those snow games, splashing through base path puddles and shivering as the sun began to set, were a sign of hope. Dry grass and evaporated puddles were just around the corner.

It no doubt happened in many other Montana communities. Baseball, like the return of robins and temperatures in the low 40s, have, and I hope always will be part of every kids’ experience growing up.