Apr 07 2009
Baseball Been Bery Bery Good to Me
Here it is the start of another baseball season. I love baseball. Fans have good reason to walk away from America’s pastime after years of heart-wrenching revelations and scandal. The sport no longer enjoys cultural resonance, seemingly overtaken by its action-packed cousins, football and basketball. Yet, I still love baseball because I’ve gotten to enjoy the sport through the eys of my son.
At age five he awoke one day suddenly harboring an insatiable passion for playing ball. Where did that desire come from? He certainly didn’t get it from his dad. I’m the poster child for sedentary activity. Nevertheless, from then on, you’d rarely see him without a ball, a glove or a bat in his hands.
We enrolled him in T-ball to learn the rules of the game and develop rudimentary skills. Don’t you just smile when they run the bases the wrong way after their first hit?
Many nights after work he would insist that I play ball with him in the cul de sac. Usually I would pitch to him and he would hit the ball across the street, into neighbor’s yards or onto our roof. I didn’t always feel like doing it, but the time spent day after day pursuing my son’s passion, became a powerful adhesive binding us together.
My son grew up through the ranks of Pony league to become a pitcher. There’s nothing quite like the mixture of apprehension, anxiety, and excitement I would feel when my son took to the mound. Every pitch elicited parental pride or empathetic concern. Yet he remained steady and even-keeled, learning to deal with the pressure of performing under scrutiny. For me, the apprehension came from knowing he stood in the way of line drives hit by 12-year old boys who looked as though they could have driven themselves to the ballpark.
Just hanging out at the ball field kindles idyllic memories; sitting with my wife among other enthusiastic parents while our daughters alternately watched the game, wandered off to play in the dirt, or ran around in a reasonably secure setting.
My son, driven by his passion, sometimes played too hard. He blew out his shoulder despite our warnings and precaution. He still played other positions and even pitched occasionally (with unpredictable results) through high school.
Even though he no longer wears pin stripes, I picture my son shagging fly balls or turning a double play whenever I watch the professionals on the field. You grow to love the things your child loves. The love of the game blossomed in me because I love my son.
Play ball.
