Baseball. America's Pastime. The boys of summer. I'm running out of cliches. I was never much of a player. I like baseball, mind you. I love to watch, that is. I was just never very good at playing. The game never held my attention very well. I just wasn't captured by baseball fever as were many of my peers.
The outfield is where they put the lousy athletes. I played outfield. I distinctly remember how boring a game seemed to me, out there, seemingly out of reach of any possible delivery by one of our 9-year-old opponents. I was a nature boy. Still am. I would examine the white clover as the honeybees harvested their nectar, watch raindrops fall through the glow of the field flood lights (it looked exactly like the stars on the bridge of the starship Enterprise - zipping past at warp speed), examine the clouds, tug at the leather thongs on my glove with my teeth. Sure enough, as the Law of Averages would dictate, there was the occasional fluke hit when the ball would meet with an unsuspecting aluminum bat and a cracking peal would rouse me from a distant daydream - "Where's the ball!?!? Where's the ball!?!?" I would either completely fail to see it or would see it too late. I carry the shame to this day. But I may yet be redeemed.
My son has taken to baseballs and bats like a fish to water. My dad was a good player, as was my wife's dad. My wife's dad's dad played in the minors in Cincinnati. Maybe it skips a generation every once in a while, I don't know. What I do know is that it gives me a joy I can not quite describe to see him connect with the ball and see the glee in his eyes. I couldn't care less if he ever plays anything - but I have to admit it is pretty cool that my son of all people, seems to like it.
So keep your chins up, poor Mudville. Casey may have a second chance yet...
The outfield is where they put the lousy athletes. I played outfield. I distinctly remember how boring a game seemed to me, out there, seemingly out of reach of any possible delivery by one of our 9-year-old opponents. I was a nature boy. Still am. I would examine the white clover as the honeybees harvested their nectar, watch raindrops fall through the glow of the field flood lights (it looked exactly like the stars on the bridge of the starship Enterprise - zipping past at warp speed), examine the clouds, tug at the leather thongs on my glove with my teeth. Sure enough, as the Law of Averages would dictate, there was the occasional fluke hit when the ball would meet with an unsuspecting aluminum bat and a cracking peal would rouse me from a distant daydream - "Where's the ball!?!? Where's the ball!?!?" I would either completely fail to see it or would see it too late. I carry the shame to this day. But I may yet be redeemed.
My son has taken to baseballs and bats like a fish to water. My dad was a good player, as was my wife's dad. My wife's dad's dad played in the minors in Cincinnati. Maybe it skips a generation every once in a while, I don't know. What I do know is that it gives me a joy I can not quite describe to see him connect with the ball and see the glee in his eyes. I couldn't care less if he ever plays anything - but I have to admit it is pretty cool that my son of all people, seems to like it.So keep your chins up, poor Mudville. Casey may have a second chance yet...
