When The Game Went to the Donkeys

There are chapters in American history that sparkle with innovation, others that echo with conflict, and a few that make you pause, tilt your head, and ask: “We did what now?” One of those comes trotting out of the barnyard of mid-century nostalgia wearing a saddle and a pair of high-tops. It is called Donkey Baseball.

If you have never heard of it, do not feel left out. It was never meant to change the world. It was not about athletic prowess or sportsmanship. It was about laughter, clumsiness, and the peculiar charm of watching respectable adults humiliate themselves on the backs of stubborn beasts for a good cause. Donkey Baseball was entertainment with a mischievous streak, a sort of barnyard vaudeville played out on dusty diamonds and local schoolyards across postwar America.

Donkey Baseball was exactly what it sounded like. Men, and sometimes women, mounted donkeys and attempted to play baseball. The donkeys had little interest in the game. That was part of the show. You could not run the bases unless you were astride your assigned donkey. If you got bucked off, you had to wrestle your way back on before moving again. Fielding a ground ball while riding a disinterested animal that prefers eating grass to chasing pop flies? That was the comedy. That was the draw.

The origin of Donkey Baseball is usually traced back to a fellow named Ray L. Doan. He was a showman, a promoter, and a keen observer of small-town America. In the 1930s, during the darkest stretch of the Great Depression, Doan was looking for a form of entertainment that was cheap to produce and guaranteed to pack the bleachers. He started traveling with a herd of trained donkeys and a pitch that promised crowds a spectacle unlike anything they had seen.

Doan was a man of his time. America was hungry for distraction. People were still dusting themselves off from the stock market collapse, scraping together spare change, and trying to find a way to smile despite the weight of poverty and global tension. Radio shows helped. So did church socials. But nothing quite matched the thrill of watching your neighbor, your mayor, or your gym teacher trying to coax a mule into advancing from first base to second while wearing a batting helmet and a look of pure exasperation.

By the 1940s, Donkey Baseball had become a rural phenomenon. It was never sanctioned by any sporting body. Major League scouts were not scouring the donkey circuit for talent. This was strictly community theater in cleats. The game required a standard baseball field, a set of basic rules, and a dozen donkeys. Teams were made up of local volunteers. Teachers often played against students. Police officers squared off with the fire department. Sometimes men faced off against women, with a side helping of 1950s gender stereotypes baked into the play-by-play.

It worked because it was absurd. The donkeys were the stars. They were stubborn, ornery, and completely disinterested in the goals of their riders. Some had a knack for standing perfectly still no matter how desperately they were kicked. Others would wander into the outfield, munch on dandelions, or sit down and refuse to budge. There were moments of accidental coordination. A donkey might bolt unexpectedly and carry its rider across three bases in a blur of hooves and laughter. But more often than not, the riders looked like ragdolls dangling from a slow-moving parade of four-legged comedians.

Promoters loved Donkey Baseball because it sold tickets. Communities loved it because it raised money. Churches used it to fund missions. Schools hosted games to buy band uniforms. Rotary clubs, Kiwanis chapters, and VFW halls saw it as a wholesome way to fill an evening and earn a few dollars for their causes. The audience was never disappointed. Even if the game moved slower than molasses in January, the laughter came quick and often.

The players? That was another story. Mounting a donkey is not like hopping onto a bicycle. There is no pedal, no clutch, no steering wheel. There is only the hope that the animal beneath you is in a cooperative mood. They rarely were. Uniforms got shredded. Pride took a beating. But the embarrassment was always softened by the crowd’s roar. It was the rare sporting event where falling off was often more celebrated than hitting a home run.

Donkey Baseball traveled from town to town. It was not unusual for a traveling team to offer their donkeys for hire, letting locals provide the “talent” while the company ran the logistics. Flyers would go up around town. Local newspapers would carry writeups promising the funniest night of the year. And when game day arrived, the grandstands would be full. Kids screamed with laughter. Adults clapped and shouted encouragement, half cheering for their team and half rooting for chaos.

There were mishaps. Bones were broken now and then. Donkeys kicked. Riders tumbled. There was the occasional accusation that one donkey had been given coffee before the game while another had been dosed with tranquilizers. But for the most part, it was a safe and silly diversion. Animal rights concerns were minimal. This was before PETA, before televised exposés, before most people gave much thought to the inner emotional lives of livestock. If the donkeys were annoyed, they hid it well. Or maybe they expressed it with each stubborn refusal to move.

As the 1950s rolled on, Donkey Baseball began to fade. Television changed everything. Americans found new ways to be entertained, and most of them did not require saddle sores or face-first landings in the infield dirt. High schools added more formal athletic programs. Insurance companies became more cautious. Liability concerns grew. Some people began to feel the whole thing was a little too undignified. Others, especially in growing suburbs, saw it as a relic of a bygone time. The humor of it wore thin for some.

But it never fully disappeared. Even today, there are corners of the country where Donkey Baseball games are held. Not as often. Not with the same fanfare. But the idea still lingers in the collective memory. For those who remember the golden age of donkey sports, there is a wistful affection. They remember the smell of the dust, the bray of the animals, the uncontrollable laughter as the principal tried to tag home plate while being dragged sideways by a mule named Daisy.

In many ways, Donkey Baseball says more about the culture that embraced it than about the sport itself. It was a reflection of a simpler time, though not necessarily a better one. It was a moment when communities came together, not to compete or impress, but to laugh at their own expense. It was democratic in the best sense. Anyone could play. No skill required. Only a willingness to look ridiculous for the sake of a good cause.

There is something beautiful in that. In a country that often takes its sports far too seriously, Donkey Baseball stood out as a reminder that games are supposed to be fun. That winning is not always the point. That sometimes, the best memories are made when nothing goes according to plan.

Maybe that is the legacy of Donkey Baseball. Not the scores. Not the photos in old scrapbooks. But the shared joy of communal silliness. A laughter that still echoes, faint and dusty, from those old fairground fields where donkeys once roamed and dignity went out the window with the first bray of the night.

So the next time you find yourself taking things a bit too seriously, picture a man in a softball jersey trying to round third on the back of a donkey who has suddenly decided to lie down. Then smile. Because once upon a time, America played a game that made no sense at all and loved every moment of it.