No One Loses on Challenger Baseball’s Spirited Field of Dreams : Handicapped: Special Little League division for handicapped youngsters has grown to 20,000 players in 679 leagues across the nation.

FRANKLIN PARK, Pa. —  When the Reds took on the Pirates at Blueberry Hill Park, it clearly was one for the books.

One batter kissed a first baseman.

Another came close to losing his pants.

And with as many as 18 fielders, all 13 batters made it home.

So it goes these summer Sundays at Blueberry Hill Park, home of the Pirates, the Reds, the Expos, the A’s, the Phillies and the Orioles. In this field of dreams, everyone cheers for everyone and nobody ever strikes out.

Not Michael Ream, Ricky Richardson or Jessica Carpon, who have Down’s syndrome.

Not Michael McKay, who is learning disabled.

Not Peter Gacka, who has cerebral palsy. He’s one of six players in wheelchairs.

The first thing you notice at Blueberry Hill Park, apart from the walkers and wheelchairs, is the spirit: plenty of back slaps and high fives.

You also notice Major League affectations. Stephanie Reid has taught herself how to spit like the big boys. And despite the borrowed paper clip holding his pants up, Ricky Richardson still likes to give the plate a few professional-sounding whacks before taking aim at the ball.

Though they just started playing this spring, most of these youngsters were no strangers to baseball, having spent summer weekends watching friends and siblings play Little League.

Bryan Rossmiller, 9, was among them, until the day two years ago when he fell down the stairs and couldn’t get up. The doctors diagnosed a spinal cord tumor and put him in a wheelchair. Bryan assumed his playing days were over.

It seemed Peter Gacka’s would never begin.

Natalie Gacka remembers the day her 6-year-old came home from school with the sign-up sheet for Little League. “I have some really important papers today, Mommy,” he said.

It was a day she’d been dreading. All his life, she had told him he could do anything, despite the wheelchair, despite the cerebral palsy. How could she tell him that he couldn’t play?

Then there’s 7-year-old Freddie Morelli, whose big sister, Lauren, is 9. After school, she goes to softball practice and dance class. He goes to occupational therapy and speech.

“Lauren would come home from school,” said their mother, Susan, “and Freddie would say, ‘Where are we taking Lauren today?’ ”

All told, in the north hills of Pittsburgh, there were 78 similar stories, of children sleeping in their brothers’ hand-me-down baseball uniforms, like 7-year-old Jennifer Mazur, or being made batboys instead of batters, like 15-year-old Justin Hartman. All because fate had thrown them a curve.

It took a rookie to bring them together.

Bill Macauley, a computer company executive, was in the process of moving to Pittsburgh when he happened to drive past a ball field near his Monmouth, N.J., home.

A game was in progress. The players were handicapped. Macauley felt something click into place. With his daughters, Lauren and Christie, grown up, Macauley had quit coaching. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

Macauley had stumbled upon Challenger baseball, a division of Little League. Created in 1989 for youngsters with disabilities, it has since grown to 20,000 players in 679 leagues across the country.

“If there’s no Challenger Division when we get to Pittsburgh,” he told his wife, Marianne, “we’ll start one.”

That was last spring.

Bill’s new employer, Legent Corp., helped with expenses, and Little League headquarters in Williamsport agreed to charter the new Challengers, which meant help with equipment and fields. Support also came from the Ingomar-Franklin Park Athletic Assn., whose president, Chuck Mazur, is Jennifer’s dad.

Now it’s her own uniform that Jennifer won’t take off. And instead of warming a bench, Justin Hartman is belting ‘em out of the park.

Today, it’s the Expos vs. the A’s, bottom of the first, and Jimmy Zeszutek is heading for home. Beside him is A’s manager Cindy Putteman, a blur of red hair and freckles, cheering him on.

Jimmy can play by himself. Those who can’t are accompanied by buddies, able-bodied kids who help players bat, field, or simply pay attention. It’s not unusual at a Challenger game to see two grinning kids running the bases hand-in-hand.

Jimmy’s parents, Jim and Linda, are watching, as are everyone’s parents. Attendance is mandatory, although you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t want to be here.

Eight years ago, Jimmy was born with cerebral palsy. Two years ago, he needed an armrest on his walker. “He didn’t have enough muscle to support his own weight,” said his mother.

Now, he coasts down wheelchair ramps, scaring the Hades out of his teachers. On the ball field, his nickname is “Flash.”

Back in the dugout, he’s not even out of breath as he accepts high fives from teammates. Then he turns to the press. What does he like best about baseball? “I like junk food,” he says thoughtfully.

For his father, who played Little League 30 years ago, watching Jimmy play baseball is magical. “Your heartstrings just tug to see him out there.” But more than that, “It makes him feel better about himself.”

For years, A’s manager Cindy Putteman had coached her own offspring. But this was different. “I was worried about myself at first, about how I’d react, if I’d do the right thing.”

She wasn’t the only one. With her husband busy settling into his new job, Marianne Macauley had become his pinch hitter, recruiting players and scouring Toys ‘R’ Us for the wide array of bats and balls needed to accommodate the Challengers.

She’d also telephoned parents, inquiring as tactfully as possible about their children’s disabilities.

There were times, she said, when “I’d get off the phone and I’d be blown away. I said to Bill, ‘I’m going to go to these games and just cry.’ He said, ‘No, you won’t.’ He was right. Each time, it got a bit easier.”

“Within five minutes, it was just another kid,” said Orioles coach Dave Moser, whose son, Max, is a buddy to player Paul Emark, a sturdy 7-year-old who likes to call up the coach and chew the fat. (“Hello, Dave? This is Paul.”)

The other day, Moser said, “Irv Hill was playing the pitcher’s mound. He was fielding a grounder, and instead of tagging the kid, he heaved the ball at him.”

His buddy, Adam Miller, was aghast. “Irv!” he admonished. “You’re gonna get fined!”

At 17, Michael Ream is the oldest of the league’s 78 players. At first, he refused to participate. “It was hard to get him to realize he was part of a team,” said his father, Dick. “In early practices, he hugged the wall.”

The other day, he hugged and kissed first baseman Mike McKay, 11, after hitting a pitch for the first time all year. That night at dinner, he smiled and said, “Hit.”

Cindy Putteman’s most memorable moment involved an autistic player. Six-year-old Stephen Garber “never shows any emotion, no joy. He always tells you ‘No.’ ‘You’re bad.’ But three weeks ago, when he was leaving, he blew me a kiss.”

And David Obiecunas lets her touch him now. He wouldn’t at first. “That was hard for me, because I’m a hugger. You have to have physical contact to coach. But I learned to back off a little.”

As with any team, some players need more help than others. “One little boy can barely flick the ball off the tee,” Marianne Macauley said. At the other end of the spectrum is Justin Hartman. Early in the season, “he was hogging the ball, smacking it. He needed a more competitive atmosphere, and we worried he’d hurt the younger kids,” said his mother, Diane.

Dave Mozur solved the problem by arranging for Justin, who has Down’s syndrome, to play Little League practice games with 11- and 12-year-olds.

As the weeks go by, more and more they are hitting pitched balls, particularly when the pitcher is Bill Macauley, a graceful, athletic man who’s usually able to hit the waving bats with the ball. Technically, players are supposed to get five balls before they must hit off the tee, but that’s one of many rules Macauley enjoys bending.

Since there are 13 players on a team and every youngster bats every inning, Challenger innings tend to be long. Games end after three. “Any more and the kids start to get itchy,” Marianne Macauley said.

The rules take some getting used to. After a hit, the batter runs to first base, as usual. However, even if tagged by a fielder, the batter’s allowed to stay in the game and run the bases. There’s no such thing as an out.

Because most players are accompanied by buddies, there can be up to 20 participants on the field at any given time, not counting umpires, batters and coaches.

There are moments when any resemblance to baseball seems almost coincidental.

Still, the critical elements--the smack of bat on ball, the grass-stained uniforms, the hot summer sun, the ice-cold sodas--are present in spades.

There’s even a controversy: Whether to keep score.

“Some kids are higher functioning and better able to play by the regular rules. They’ll get up there, take a swing and say, ‘Strike one,’ ” Marianne said.

“For kids who are aware of baseball and how it works, they know there’s a winner and a loser. They want to know the score. Some parents feel that’s creeping into competitiveness that we don’t want to have. Others say that’s not how the world is. Their kids are being mainstreamed, and they need to learn how to deal with disappointment.”

Most likely, the problem will be solved next season, when the Macauleys plan to add a second division.

For the time being, everyone’s still learning.

That’s true for parents as well.

“Sometimes we try to take too much responsibility for our kids,” said Susan Morelli. “We tend to blame everything on their special needs or disabilities.”

Like the other day, when Freddie got tired of baseball and decided he’d rather sit in the dirt. “Oh, Susan,” said a mother whose child plays regular Little League. “They all do that.”

In the beginning, Cindy Putteman recalls, there was considerable whining. “It was, ‘I want mommy!’ ‘I want soda pop!’ ”

But as the season progressed, so did the players. Even though several games were rained out, the action at Blueberry Hill Park came to look more and more like the real thing.

Each team played a night game. The ultimate thrill came on Challenger Day, when the kids paraded before a cheering crowd at Three Rivers Stadium, home of the big league Pittsburgh Pirates.

Michael Ream learned to be a teammate. David Obiecunas learned to be touched. And Cindy Putteman learned that when you come right down to it, Challenger kids really aren’t very different. “All kids are challenged one way or another.”

Ultimately, the Macauleys decided to extend the season into summer, giving the Challengers a few more chances to put on their grass-stained uniforms and enter the field of dreams.

While the 1992 season isn’t over til it’s over, it’s already safe to say how it ends:

Everyone wins.