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When I was elementary school age, we Smiths regularly visited Suwanee, Georgia, to see my grandparents, Leila and Frank Byrd.

Suwanee was a tiny place then, population about 400. But it was big enough to field a city baseball team.

I don’t remember the details, except that the nearby towns — Suwanee, Duluth, Buford, Sugar Hill, plus a few local businesses — had a baseball league for adults.  It was ideal for local guys who had moved on from high school, had jobs and families, but still wanted to play baseball.

Frank played for several teams in his youth, including that of the Bona Allen Company, a tannery in Buford that made shoes, horse collars, and Spalding baseball gloves.

The teams in the league were quite close-knit, usually consisting of the brothers, sons, nephews, and cousins of the previous generations. Suwanee was the kind of place where most people were lifelong residents.

Games were played on the local high school fields. I’m sure the league schedules were staggered, because every time I attended a game, players and former players from numerous teams were in the stands. It was a social thing.

Each team had a cadre of skilled and dedicated hecklers. They were the league equivalent of cheerleaders.

On one summer visit, probably in the early 1950s when I was nine or 10, Frank took Dad and me to a baseball game at the Duluth stadium. Frank’s cousin, Jap Brogden from Chamblee, also came along.

Jappa was his given name. Like Frank, he had no middle name. He ran Brogden’s Garage, in Chamblee. Frank and his circle of friends used Suwanee mechanics for routine auto work, but for a job of any significance, they went to Jap.

Jap looked a lot like the actor Lee J. Cobb. He was a stocky, bald-headed man who smoked cigars and wore a gray fedora. In all seasons, he wore a white, short-sleeved nylon shirt and a tie, loosened at the neck for comfort. On the walls of Jap’s office were several old wall calendars featuring scantily-clad women.

Jap had a gruff demeanor, but like Frank, was a whimsical person. Together, they were the most accomplished, most devastating heckling team for miles around.

Frank, Jap, Dad, and I took our seats in the metal bleachers behind home plate, slightly on the first base side. A 10-foot-high chain-link fence separated the seats from the playing field. We were about 15 feet from home plate.

I don’t recall which team played Duluth that day, but for their own reasons, Frank and Jap considered the Duluth team the adversary. Early on, they began mildly heckling the Duluth players, as if limbering up.

When Duluth was on the field, Frank and Jap would address certain players directly, needling and probing for a reaction. Most of the players were accustomed to heckling from the stands, and they ignored it.

But the catcher had a shorter fuse. He was big and powerful-looking in the manner of Babe Ruth — but an overweight and wheezing Babe Ruth.

He played well enough, but he grunted and strained and sweated profusely. He was a man who would sleep well that night.

Perhaps the exertion left him short-tempered. Perhaps he had personal troubles. Whatever the reason, it was obvious that Frank and Jap were getting to him. He turned his head a few times to see who in the stands was annoying him.

Frank and Jap knew they had found their man.

Frank cupped his hands over his mouth to form a megaphone and in a gentle voice, said, “So round…”

Jap did the same and said, “So firm…”

To which Frank added, “So fully packed…”

The catcher tensed, but didn’t turn around. The game continued for a pitch or two. The batters changed.

When the catcher took his stance for the first pitch, the chorus began again.

“So round…”

“So firm…”

“So fully packed…”

The catcher visibly tensed. His head and neck reddened, but he stayed in his crouch.

“So round…”

“So firm…”

“So fully packed…”

Suddenly, the catcher threw down his mask and glove and, in a rage, charged the fence. As he did, the Duluth players, on the field and off, jumped to their feet. Almost in unison, they stepped forward to show their readiness.

At the same time, the 30 or 40 spectators in the stands, mostly men, also arose. They, too, stepped forward in unison.

I was a kid, a frightened kid, but I knew exactly what was happening. Time seemed to stand still as the two sides stood facing each other.

There was Frank, leaning slightly forward, arms at his sides, glaring back at the catcher. There were Jap and Dad, doing the same. The catcher stood at the fence, hyperventilating. The ball field was eerily quiet.

Slowly, the catcher calmed down. He muttered something, turned, and walked back to retrieve his mask and glove. With a chorus of mumbling and occasional laughter, the two sides dispersed and settled down. The game resumed.

Frank and Jap resumed their heckling, but they didn’t resume the refrain that set the catcher off. Maybe it was an honor thing — the code of the league.

For the rest of the game, the catcher kept his cool, even when Frank and Jap heckled him.

But if a “round” or a “firm” had surfaced, I have no doubt the Duluth Police would have needed reinforcements.

1940s magazine ad for Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Members of the Bona Allen baseball team, probably in the late 1940s. Frank is top row, right. His brother Bill is center row, left.