Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime

As a child, I didn’t know the date of Father’s Day. I knew my friend Bob couldn’t come out and play because his family celebrated with his dad. I’d walk past his house anyway, hoping he would see me. When he didn’t come out I’d hang out in the tree house; or ride my bike – alone.

When I got older, each year someone would ask me if I sent a Father’s Day card to my dad. “Oh, I’m sorry,’ they’d say as they remembered that my father died when I was in high school.

“That’s okay.” And it was. I wasn’t sad about his death. I didn’t really know him. Nothing was lost; there was nothing to miss. Sometimes I felt sad because I never knew him. Then I would say, “I think I’ll send one to my mother. She was the best father a guy could ask for.”

Sam can’t stand it any longer. He’s just too anxious to give me my fathers’ day presents. So I’m awakened by an oversized birthday gift bag with a picture of a baseball glove on the side; it lands on my stomach. It is followed immediately by Sam, who tipped the bag over, spilling all my gifts onto the bed. First I see a coffee maker, which would be put to good use very soon. The other “gifts” scattered on the bed include a breakfast bar, TV remote control, a directory of Sam’s pre-school class, and a large envelope full of information from our realtor.

I also see a collage that, I suspect, his mother helped him put together. It’s a collage of pictures she took during last baseball season. There were shots of him throwing, hitting, running, wearing the catcher’s equipment, sliding into home and, of course, drinking his hard-earned Double Cola after a game. Miraculously, none of these photos includes the chain link fence that appears in nearly all baseball pictures. The fence is what separates real baseball players who wear uniforms from the rest of the world.

In the upper left corner is a shot of Sam at bat and me pitching. I’m on one knee about halfway between home plate and the pitcher’s mound (that’s where the ground is softest). The ball is in mid-air; and by the way Sam is focused, I’m sure he hit it way out there.

There’s something else about the picture that strikes me. Sam is playing baseball and I’m coaching and pitching to him. He’s five and in his second year of t-ball, and it will never happen just like that again. But we have a picture of it and that picture is on my collage. What a great gift I received that Fathers’ Day, that third Sunday in June.

We both thought we were going to be on the Courier…Bob’s team. Somehow, Devin and I ended up on Firefighters. That’s kind of a bummer because Bob’s coach is a real nice guy and our coach is really old and shaky and kind of scary. But today we’re wearing our real uniforms, so for now everything is great.

Official Little League cleats are really cool. They kind of look like tennis shoes but they’re black and have rubber cleats on the bottom of them. You can only wear them to games and you can’t walk on concrete with them, because that will wear the cleats down. You can’t wear them in the house because they make black marks on the kitchen floor, and they usually have a wad of gum with grass sticking to it wedged between the cleats. Only big guys like Bob, Mike and Mark wear them. But now I have them, so I must be a big guy…but I sure don’t feel like it.

I’m nine and playing in a league in which the biggest guys are 12. We have to practice with them, and we might even play in a real game against them. The coaches put us little guys in during the last inning for someone who just batted. That way we probably won’t have to bat. But if we get a lot of hits and bat around, then there’s no choice.

The real season has arrived. Opening day! Devin and me are walking out to get our pictures taken. I look down at my new cleats that don’t even have bubble gum stuck to the bottom yet. Devin says, “Man, we’re gonna be on this team for four whole years.”

Four years! I don’t even know how long four years is, but it sounds like forever. Right now, I’m just happy I don’t have gum on my shoes yet, that I have real uniform, and that my buddy Devin is on Firefighters too…for four years. Man, that’s forever.

The Little League field has real dugouts. They’re dark green and you can’t see inside unless you’re old enough to be on a team and go in there, then only during games. When you step inside you have to walk down three steps because it’s a “dugout” and that’s the way the pros’ dugouts are. It’s always wet down there, but if you’re a benchwarmer and you get there first, you can sit on the brick wall in front by the fence that keeps foul balls from hitting us. I always sit farthest away from the door because the coach sits by the door and you can’t goof off if you sit near him. If he sees you, he might put you in to bat, or ask you questions about the game, so you have to watch.

Sometimes, when the big guys strike out, they come in and throw their helmet and bat. If you’re too close you can get hit. Then they come down to our end and cry. You have to act like you’re not looking, because they think nobody sees them. Me and Tom always get in the dugout first and get the good seats at the other end…and goof off.

The two square holes in the back of the dugout are supposed to let air in, but they don’t work very well because it gets really hot. Probably they just ran out of concrete blocks.

Randy’s mom passes drinks through the holes because he sweats a lot and she doesn’t want him to drink out of the water fountain. Glenn’s mom gives him candy that way because he’s fat and needs it. Sometimes the rough kids throw water and trash through the holes and take off running.

The builders put bars in the dugout holes to keep the little kids from climbing in. Once Ed’s little sister tried anyway, and got her head stuck. We had to stop the game until they squeezed her head out of that hole because she was crying so loud. Then they gave her a free Double Cola and she’s not even a real baseball player.

One row of concrete blocks at the top were installed sideways to let light in. If you stand on a helmet, you can look through them and check if your mom is sitting in the bleachers. My mom always is. Matt never checks because he lives with his grandma and she’s too old to come to the games.

The water fountains usually don’t work. When they do, the water flows out so slowly that you have to stick your face way down to get a drink. It’s dirty and it stinks. It’s probably connected to the toilet, so we don’t drink from it. Coach says that’s silly, but then how come the water stops every time somebody flushes the toilet? If you’re the catcher and you sweat a lot because of the equipment, sometimes you have to drink it. My dad always told my brother not to worry about the dirt…baseball players go ahead and drink it if they need to. I’m glad I don’t need to yet.

Everybody goes through the hole in the fence at our end of the dugout to get in and out on rainy days when there’s a big puddle at the other end. One time after we took infield, I threw the ball toward the dugout because they were getting ready to play the national anthem. That hole is only about a foot wide, but from center field I threw it right threw the hole − in air. The coach sat was sitting at our end making the lineup so nobody could see who would be starting. The ball bounced on the bench right next to him. It hit the back wall, and then knocked some helmets off the bat rack. It scared him and made him mess up the score book. He yelled, “That ain’t funny!” I had to put my glove over my face and act like I was rubbing in some spit because I couldn’t stop laughing.

After taking infield, I hustled in and grabbed the best seat. Next year I’ll be one of the big guys and I’ll play in the field when the other team bats. Then the new kids will sit on the brick wall, at the other end, by the hole in the fence, where the coach can’t see them….and goof off.

It was the first ball ever hit to me in a Little League game. It had to be: this was the first Little League game that I played. I stood in left field. I’d heard only fast guys play left field because that’s where all the balls are hit. I was ready for a hard hit…but hopefully, it’s not too hard because my glove didn’t have much padding and the ball would bruise my hand if it smacked the middle of the leather.

I ran as hard as I could, almost all the way to center field. I jumped as high as I could and reached as far as I could. That ball tipped the top of my glove and kept going, all the way to the fence. But it was still pretty cool because I had tried really hard and I don’t think the big guys could have even tipped it. But I did. It was a hit…no way I could have caught it. Everyone in the stands went, “OOOOOOOOH.”

I turned around and ran to get it. So did our center fielder, Rodney. Rodney was big and hit home runs. I let him pick up the ball because he had a good arm and was older than me. I’ll bet he thought I did pretty good for a nine-year-old. When he ran past me, he said, “Oh, way to go, now it’s an error.”

I wasn’t sure what an error was, but I knew it wasn’t good.

Rodney threw the ball to third base and nailed the runner. I stood there until I saw that everyone else was running to the dugout; that was the third out. I felt like my legs couldn’t move. I ran in as fast as I could, but it didn’t feel like I was even moving.

Everyone was yelling, “Great throw, Rodney! Good job, Rodney!” I kept my head down until I got to the dugout. When I looked up, the first person I saw was my mom. She said, “Don’t you dare cry.” But I did. Not because I didn’t catch the ball…nobody could have caught that one. But because Rodney told me I made an error, and that’s not good.

It’s about 3:30. I'm putting together my lineup for today's game against the Pirates and watching storm clouds move in, wondering how a rainout might affect my pitching rotation for the week. As a kid, I'd sit in the living room and watch those same clouds blow in over the trees and I'd keep checking the clock, as if somehow that would speed things up so game time would arrive before the rain.

There was one time in particular. We were playing Kiwanis and we only beat them by one run in extra innings the first time we played them. Jeremy was pitching. He's huge and throws real hard, but he's wild, so if he hits you, you'll have "seams" for at least a week. His big brother Mark hit a kid a few years ago and broke his arm...that's the truth…I heard it myself.

I'm looking out the window and there's a gigantic gray cloud moving in. It's supposed to rain, but how could it? We’re playing Kiwanis today. I put my uniform on early and sit on my bike in the garage, my mitt on the handlebars. I want to ride through the neighborhood with my uniform on − it's got a cool grass spot on the knee where I slid and made a game-winning catch. (or maybe it's from wrestling with Bob with my clean uniform on...Mom told me not to.)

When I get to the end of the road, I'll cut across the golf course and down the big hill because it's a lot quicker. I'll turn my hat around backwards, otherwise the wind might blow it off. If that happens, you just have to leave it, because if you stop, "Cotton" will get you. Cotton is the greens keeper at the golf course. He's 7 feet tall and always chasing us when we cut across the golf course...that's what I heard.

Once I "cut across" I'll see if I can make it all the way down Snake Road without pedaling.When I get to the field nothing else matters…unless there's a firetruck or a loud car racing by. Maybe I'll hit a home run today. That's cool because you get to run around the bases while everyone watches and the coach slaps your hand when you round third. Then the team will mob me at home plate and I'll run past the bleachers on the way back to the dugout with my helmet pulled down. I don’t want anyone to see me smiling, because big ol' cheesy grins are only for the dudes who hit their first home run. Sometimes guys will pull their helmet down after they strike out because they’re crying.

Upon reaching the dugout, I'll go to the back wall and put my helmet down. I’ll put my it down beneath that row of concrete blocks in the wall that are turned sideways. I’ll stand on it and peak through and make sure mom's there. She is...she always is. Some kids have to ask for rides home after the game, and if you ask them where their Mom is, they don't know. But if somebody asks if my mom's here, I say yes without even looking. She's in the left field bleachers. She sits in the same place every game. She likes it there because some of the moms and dads that sit behind home plate are always screaming at each other and everyone else. I can't figure out why they're always mad, because baseball is fun. Grownups say we just don't understand because we're kids. They must be right because it sure doesn't make any sense to me.

When I run back to my position with my hat pulled down, everyone will be looking at me and pointing and saying "that's the guy who hit the home run." Glen’s dad won’t be one of them because he can’t see. But I’ll tell him after the game because he always gives us money when we hit home runs. Plus, he always smiles real big and you can see that his front tooth is missing. He lost it in the war.

After the game, we'll slap the other team's hands and their coach will stop and shake my hand real hard and say "good hit." And that's really cool because I like him more than I like our coach. Ours is a big goofball and he likes Ed more than anyone else. I sure wish I had a coach like theirs. He teaches them cool plays and buys them pizza, and it seems like he never yells...even when they lose.

We'll get our free soft drinks. I’ll get the strawberry soda, since I hit a home run. Then I'll put my bike in the back of mom's white Datsun station wagon and she'll take me home. I could ride home...I could even "pull" that golf course hill without stopping and walking if I wanted to, but I just played a great game and I'm tired. Man, it's cool being a kid.

I bet when I'm 40 I won't remember the score of that game, but I'll remember that I hit a home run and my Mom was there and the other coach said it was a good hit. (Forty! Man, that sounds old)

We beat Kiwanis, 7-5. Maybe I can't be a kid again, but hopefully I can be like that "other coach." Or maybe just sit in the stands quietly, in the same place every game, and watch my boy play baseball if that's what he wants, because when he's forty that's what he'll remember.

My dad coached all of my brother’s teams. My brother was always really good, but he didn’t seem very happy…neither did dad. Dad didn’t come to many of my games. Everyone said it was because he’s sick. Funny thing, I got sick during the game he came to...maybe I caught it from him. But I got better the next day. I wonder why he never got better.

It was pretty cool for dad to come to that game because I went 2 for 2 against a 12-year-old pitcher. I also made some good plays at second base, even though I didn’t like catching grounders because I was always afraid they would bounce up and hit me in the face. But only 9 and 10-year-olds play outfield.

My stomach started hurting real bad when it was my turn to bat again. I just stood there in the dugout. Everybody was yelling at me to bat, but it hurt so bad I almost couldn’t walk. My coach said, "What’s the matter with you? It’s your turn to bat.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, go.”

Nobody ever went in those bathrooms unless they drank way too many Double Colas before the game, or if the big guys pushed them in there and locked the door. So when your stomach hurt, all we could do was to stand still while they called our parents to pick us up and take us home.

“I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“Um, there’s no toilet paper.”
“Well, here, use my handkerchief.”

Oh my gosh...I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there sweating and then started crying. The coach yelled for my parents. When I left the dugout, my dad was there to meet me. Mom always made sure I got to practice and games, and she washed my uniform. So I usually let her walk with me and take me home, especially when I did good… or got sick.


I didn’t see dad very much because he was hardly ever home. I didn’t know what to say to him. He was a real good baseball player, so it was pretty cool that he was there today because I played a good game. He heard the fans clap for me when I walked off the field. I let him walk with me and take me home.

We walked to his car. When we got in, he said, “So were you afraid to bat against that big guy?”
Maybe he didn’t see me hit the ball or make those good plays…but maybe he did. I started crying again, even though my stomach didn’t hurt as much anymore.
“What are you crying about?”
“I just don’t feel good.”

The house across the street from my mother’s was for sale. It was nice but it’s crammed onto a small lot. It used to be Doc Branson’s lot. The Kissel’s chain link fence ran alongside it and was only about five feet from the garage. That was our home run fence when it was Doc’s lot. We’d play baseball there, but not on Doc’s day off, because he was always cutting grass. How did that big field fit on such a small lot?

We had to stop playing every time Mr. Jochum came home, because home plate was a bare spot at the other end of the lot right next to his driveway. We didn’t want to hit his car with a foul tip. There was only room for one base so when we hit the ball we had to run around the pitcher and tag the concrete block that Doc put in for us. No sliding allowed.

If we hit the ball to the right of the pitcher, it was a foul ball because that was too close to the street. Doc’s mulberry tree marked the foul line on the other side, and we always tried to hit it over there because the fielder would have to run through all the berries. The ball and his shoes would get purple juice all over them. If it hit a branch, it was still in play. Big guys weren’t allowed to hit home runs.

The first time I hit one over that fence it went into the Kissel’s yard and under the apple tree where we’d always pick apples after the games and try not to get stung by a bee. I went down to Bob’s house and told him what I did.

I was 10 years old, my second year in Little League, when I hit the ball for the first time in a real game. When I was nine, I batted four times. I only swung once, and that was because Tom’s mom promised to give me all the money she had if I just swung at a pitch. I swung all the way around, missed the ball and fell on my rear end right on home plate. I received 78 cents for that one. It felt great.

Now I swing a lot. One time, I swung and the ball barely missed my fingers and it stung real bad. I looked up and saw the ball drop on top of the visitors’ dugout. It’s always funny to see the coaches duck their heads when the ball hits the roof of the dugout, even when there’s no way it can hit them. It didn’t bounce very far, because it was real hot that day and the tar on the roof of the dugout was soft so the ball stuck there. That was the first time I hit the ball in a real game.

When I was 11, I started. Larry pitched for the other team. I hit the ball a lot, but for some reason, this time I couldn’t even feel the ball hit the bat. This one rose a lot higher than my others, way up in the air, and it kept going. It chopped right through the leaves on one of the little trees that Schaeffer just planted. He claimed it was for shade but we laughed about that because it was so little and only had about 25 leaves. The ball I hit knocked some of those off. That was my first home run in a real game. It was awesome.

When we got home, I rode my bike down to Bob’s house with my uniform on and waited for him to ask me how I did. His mom asked if we won and I said, “I hit my first home run.”

“Are you crying? Are you crying? Are you crying?” Tom Hanks’ character, Coach Jimmy Dugan, asked Evelyn Gardner in the movie A League of Their Own. Gardner, played by Bitty Schram, was the right fielder for the Rockfield Peaches.

“There's no crying! There’s no crying in baseball!” he continued. Coach Dugan was a former major league baseball player. As coach of the Peaches, he was learning the nuances of coaching an all women’s team in the All American Girls Professional Baseball League. The league formed during World War II, when the military drained major league teams of their players.

Emily was there. She saw Tom Hanks say that line in A League of Their Own. All the Rockford Peaches’ home games were filmed in Evansville, at Bosse Field, the third oldest professional baseball stadium in the country behind Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. Emily was in the stands as an extra the day that scene was shot.

Emily was only the second girl to ever play in our league. She was placed on my team because I had coached the only other girl. Since I “had done a good job with her,” they thought Emily would do well on my team, too. League officials explained to me that the fall season, or “fall ball,” was much more laid back and instructional rather than competitive, so it wouldn’t matter as much. That made me suspicious.

Emily kept her hair short. As an 11-year-old, when she pulled her hat down, you couldn’t tell that she was a girl. She loved the game…she loved everything about baseball. She seemed to know everything about every major league team and player, and she loved to share it. I learned a lot from Emily.

Emily was tough. During one practice, she was playing right field and I hit a short line drive to her. Holding none of the fear typical of so many Little League players, she charged the ball as hard as she could. She was in perfect position, but the ball landed right on the lip of the outfield, where the dirt meets the grass, and bounced up and hit her right in the face. It made one of those sounds that cause me to search for mom or dad, hoping they’ll take care of it so I didn’t have to see anymore.

When I got to Emily she was lying on the ground with her hand over her eye. As much as she probably wanted to, she was not crying – absolutely not crying – because there’s no crying in baseball. I moved her hand and saw that the ball had hit the lower edge of her left eye socket. There was already a mouse as big as a golf ball.

Basic baseball first aid consists of rubbing dirt on the wound, walking it off, or otherwise “shaking it off” and “being tough.” But this was serious…this called for ice. She sat in the dugout the rest of that practice – not in the stands with her mother because she might miss something – with a bag of ice on her face. When practice was over, the mouse had hardly gone down at all. The outline of the seams from the ball was very visible. Emily thought that was pretty cool.

Emily had a black eye for the rest of the season. I wondered if she was going home and hitting herself with the ball just to make sure it didn’t go away. She spent the next couple games with me in the dugout, telling me about the Major League Baseball playoff situation. Emily and I became buddies.

Between innings one game, I was walking back to the dugout and Emily was walking slightly behind me, just off to the side. I looked ahead and noticed her mother had a camera pointed in our direction. I didn’t acknowledge either of them, but slowed down just enough to make sure they got a good picture. To me, that was pretty cool.

Years later, I read an article in the sports section about Emily. She was a senior in high school and had won some athletic honor. There she was, my buddy Emily, with her picture in the sports section. That black eye had finally faded. I wonder if she remembers me, that black eye, or sneaking that picture. I wonder if I can get a copy?

Even the parents from the other team stood up and cheered for Tara…especially the mothers. Tara was the only girl in the league that year, and possibly the first ever in this league. We were playing in the season tournament and this was probably her last game.

When she came to bat for the first time that game, she had to lift her hair up so the scorekeeper could see the number on the back of her jersey. One game, an opposing coach complained about her dangling earrings, so the ump made her take them off – for “safety reasons.” She was 12, wearing makeup and doing other girl stuff.

It was cool to see all the fans show their appreciation for her accomplishment. Just making it through three years of hearing players on the other team say, “She’s a girl, she can’t hit” was a major feat. But the reason they stood up and cheered was because Tara had just hit a two-run homer. Nice to see such a young lady actually hit a home run against the big boys, they thought. It was especially nice for us, since it tied the game.

Two innings later, Tara hit another line drive to the right-field fence for a double that tied the game again. This time, only our side was cheering.

The final inning was a familiar scene. We were down by two runs and Tara came to bat with two runners on base. As the ball soared over the right field fence, those same fans who were so happy for her just a few minutes ago looked like they’d been hustled by a pool shark. Strange. As she rounded third, we slapped hands. Her hair was flying and earrings dangling, her grin was as wide as it could be. Yeah, she’s a girl. But this girl can hit.

It turned out to be Tara’s last weekend of baseball. She didn’t make the all-star team and they wouldn’t let her play hard ball with the guys in Pony League. She never played again.

That was okay with her…she had other girl stuff to do.

Wait a minute – April 23 is moving day! After a lifetime on Evansville’s west side, we’re moving to Newburgh, a small town just east of Evansville.

That morning, my brain quick-pitches questions: “Where’s Sam’s hat?” “Are we packed for the move?” “Wow, my son’s first game…will my moving helpers show up?” “Where’s my hat?” “Did we remember to have the utilities switched?” “Do I have all the baseball equipment?” “Why…why…did I put regular gasoline in a diesel U-Haul?”

Sam takes left field. His defensive stance is perfect. I only make one small coaching adjustment: “Sam, face this way.” Our pitcher, Grace, proceeds to gobble up everything that is hit forward − and some that are not. She makes about seven throwouts to first base in the first inning. Still, we’re in the customary 12-run hole. I’m confident we can make a comeback.

Yet, my mind returns to "is there any way we’ll get everything moved today?"

To make life a bit simpler, we bat in the order of the players’ numbers. Sam wanted the shirt with the line and the circle, so he bats 10th. Our leadoff hitter, Kelsey, smacks a ground ball and runs to the correct base…a proud moment for any coach. Amazing Grace comes up a little later and clears the bases. During the next few batters, I can’t keep my mind from trying to figure out how much repairs would be to that U-Haul I’d filled up with the wrong fuel.

I look to the dugout. Sam is coming to the plate. He struts to the batter’s box and steps in. He spreads his feet, lifts his bat and puts on his mean face. He’s ready. I load the ball on the tee. He looks up at me for direction. I stand there and watch him. Sam, my son and now my left fielder, is about to hit for the first time in a “real” game. I can’t bring myself to tell him to swing because once he does, his first-ever at-bat will be over.

Finally, I give him the go ahead and he hits a line drive toward the gap between first and second. About eight fielders are gathered there. “Please get through, please get through,” I say to myself. It does and Sam gets to stay on first...legitimately.

Jack, our 12th batter, eventually steps in. He taps one that rolls up the middle. Since he is the final batter we let him just keep running the bases until he scores or gets tagged out. Sam is on second base. He stops and watches to ball trickle past him before leaving second, so by the time he reaches home, the 11th and 12th batters are right on his heels. But rather than take any chances, he slides. He comes to a complete stop three feet from the plate. The ump shouts, “Safe!” Just to be sure, he sits up and rolls forward, lands on his belly and slaps the plate with his hand. A perfect head-first slide.

Through the cloud of dust I can see Sam smiling. Then I and see Ben and Jack barreling toward home. “Sam, get up. There are runners behind you!”

Satisfied that he was safe and sufficiently covered with dirt, he stands up. We high five and he exclaims, “I did it, daddy!” So he not only got the best hit, but the biggest laugh of the inning as well. After one inning, the score is tied, 12-12.

Sam collected two more line drive hits. In the field, Coach Tim makes him aware that a ground ball is heading his way. He shows a lot of hustle chasing it down in the outfield, only to get trampled by Nicholas in deep center just before he reached it. “Nicholas, great play and I love your hustle, but you’re the third baseman,” I say. Sam suffered only minor psychosomatic injuries to his knee.

The game ends in a 36-36 tie. Sam and I pack our stuff and leave the field. Once outside the fence, more important things call him…his free Double Cola, candy and the teeter totter. Cathy says to me, “You ready to start moving?”

That’s right, we're moving. For a moment, I had forgotten.

That evening, in our new house, Sam sits on the floor next to me with his uniform still on − hat, cleats and all. He’s exhausted after playing three full innings of baseball and "helping the big strong worker guys do the work" as he puts it. I look over to see if he’s sleeping. He notices me, returns my glance and says, “It sure was a great day, daddy.”

It sure was, Sam. It sure was.

It is a good practice…just Sam and me.

I hit fly balls to him in the outfield, because he needs to practice catching and slamming into the wall like New York Yankees centerfielder Johnny Damon. Apparently, slamming into the wall is necessary even on ground balls that don’t make it to the wall. We use tennis balls, because they don’t hurt as much when he practices taking one on the chin.

I hit one ball so high that Sam says it hit the clouds. It brings back the time when Doc Branson’s son, Bix, used to throw balls into the clouds for me at the one-base field on Doc’s lot. I think he must have been a pro baseball player. Doc kept a catcher’s glove in the back of his garage, right next to the hole that his dog, Lucky, used as a passage when it was raining or when he got too hot. It must have been the glove Bix used in the pros. Doc said I could use it anytime, as long as I put it back. Sometimes, when Lucky was lying by that hole in the garage, I had to throw the glove back in its place, because when he saw me coming he would look up at me and show his teeth. I thought he was going to bite me, but Doc said he just wanted somebody to scratch his butt.

One time, Bix threw a ball up into the clouds. I got under it and held the glove straight over my head. I usually caught his tosses, but this one tipped the end of the catcher’s glove, skimmed the top of my head and landed behind me. “Didn’t hurt,” I mumbled.
After that, Bix never wanted to throw the ball up for me anymore…maybe he hurt his arm.
Maybe we should have used tennis balls.

Sam walks into the shed and decks out in full catcher’s gear. He needs practice for the game tomorrow. He learns how to balance the face mask on top of his head when he walks out to the pitcher, then lower it without using his hands by jerking his head down…like Johnny Damon. Pitcher and cener field; that Johnny Damon is everywhere.

A big cloud blocks out the last few minutes of daylight. I return the catcher’s equipment to the shed, because if we wait too long it will get too dark for me to see the numbers on the lock and we won’t be able get back in there. As I walk back to toss the last few pitches of batting practice, Sam runs out to greet me. He sings “Happy, happy.” I’m not sure if this is some version of “Happy Birthday” (Sam’s been singing Happy Birthday to me since the days when it was pronounced Happy Doodee) or that song from Ren and Stimpy. Either way, he’s happy. He grabs my hand and skips along with me, singing “Happy, happy” all the way back to the field.

I’ll be watching Sam play baseball for many years, but I wonder how much longer he’ll want to hold my hand and sing “Happy, happy.”

It was a good practice…just Sam and me.

I don’t always know what’s in those equipment bags that all serious tee ball players carry, but Sam tells me it’s “important baseball stuff.” I’m not quite that cool. I own the standard canvas team equipment bag with a drawstring. Some of my important stuff gets lost because my bag has a hole worn in the bottom of it from four-foot-tall players helping me take it to my car.


Sam and I decide it is time to clean out those bags. We turn them over and dump everything out. First, Sam pulls out two bats – one black official tee ball league model, the other a yellow Fisher-Price. From my bag falls one team bat that nobody uses, and five helmets – three of which still have some padding.


From another compartment, Sam removes his helmet, glove and two Power Ranger action figures that he received on his fourth birthday. In mine I find two catcher’s helmets, two chest protectors, and a glove left behind at the last practice.

“Look, Daddy.” Sam discovers an official Little League baseball still in the plastic, plus a tennis ball, wiffle ball, a tee ball that had been run over by a lawn mower, sweatbands and a Ninja Turtle. From my bag, I pull out a couple official tee balls, three batting gloves – one white pair and one left-handed black one – and a Ninja Turtle.

“There it is!” Sam grabs the black left-handed batter’s glove from my hand and holds it up next to the one black right-handed glove that he pulled from his bag. “Do you have anymore of my stuff?”

I turn my equipment bag upside down and shake it. Out fall three shin guards, four lineup cards from past games, two pens, unsold raffle tickets, a cloud of dust, some grass and a few rocks he collected from the parking lot at the ballpark. He says they’re crystals. “What else do you have, Sam?”

He finds two caps – one blue with a “G” on it and one gray with an “N.” He also removes a jacket, a pair of Spiderman sunglasses, and my keys to the equipment shed at the field we played at last year.

“Sam, give me those keys. I wondered where those things were.”
“How did they get in my bag?”
“Not sure, buddy.”
“What else do you have, daddy?”
I reach in and pull out my wrinkled and dirty gray hat with an “N” on it.
“Daddy, you’re supposed to wear that so everyone knows you’re on my team.”
“It’s a little too dirty.”

“Sam, what’s that?” At the bottom of his bag is a piece of paper. He grabs it, unfolds it, and shows it to me. I see two stick figures with maroon shirts; it looks like they’re holding hands. “You’re the big one, and that’s me,” he says.
“What are we doing, playing baseball?”
“No, we’re walking to the car. We just had a hard game. Look, we’re both wearing our hats.”
I pick up my dusty gray hat with the “N” on it, slap it across my knee and put it on my head.
“So all this is important stuff, huh?
“Yep.”
“Hey, where’s your fielder’s glove?”
“I don’t know.”

Youth baseball coaches are happiest when we throw dirt on something. We put dirt on the infield, on the pitcher’s mound, in the batter’s box. If it rains, we sprinkle some more dirt out there. If there’s a puddle, we toss some dirt in it. If a kid breaks his arm, we rub some dirt on it; he’ll be fine.

The season always starts with truckloads of dirt piles on the infield. At the first work day we stand around with rakes in our hands; somehow, that dirt gets spread out evenly. We leave a big pile of dirt outside the fence so we can throw dirt on everything when it rains…when we’re bored…when we need to look like we know what we’re doing. When that pile is gone, we truck another in.

All of which begs the question: Where does all that dirt go?

Griffin is one of those kids who is made to play sports….or be an actor. He can play nearly every position − at the same time. He dives for every ball, whether it’s hit to him or not. He lies there motionless after every play until his dad asks him if he’s okay…or he says, “Griffin, get up.”

After one game, Griffin is walking to the car with his parents. He is covered in dirt…which had become mud in the sweaty spots and where he dribbled his free drink. The outline of the baseline ran from his right hip across his back to his left shoulder, and up to the side of his hat…compelling evidence that he played third base that game.

Griffin arrives at the next game ready to play. His shirt, hat, pants and socks are spotless. To Griffin, that clean uniform is a blank canvas. That solves a long-standing baseball mystery. Where does all that dirt go? It ends up in Griffin’s mom’s washing machine.

The walls are dark, but Sam wants Cubs blue. A big red C hangs on the wall. The woodshop teacher at the school where Cathy teaches made it. Sam’s hat is on his dresser, still covered by real dirt from a real baseball field. His trophy sits out so he won’t forget to put it in his backpack with other important stuff, like his Batman shirt and his sword, to take to Florida. “Daddy, will you read me that baseball book again?”

I’m not sure I can stay awake long enough to read the book the full seven times it takes to put a five-year-old to sleep, so I look for a way out. I remember he said he was “too tired to walk,” which is why I carried from the family room to his bed. Thinking I’ve found my way out, I say, “Sure, if you go get it.”

Suddenly rejuvenated he hops up, runs to his dresser and jumps back in bed with the book, H is for Home Run. He opens it and hands it to me. “Here’s the first page.”
“Okay. A is for All Stars…”
“Daddy, you think I’ll be an all star?”
“I think you can if you work hard. But there are no all stars in tee ball.”
“How long is tee ball?”
“You play tee ball until you’re six years old.”
“Awwww…”

B…C…D…E is for error…”
“I didn’t make any errors, did I?” he asks.
“There aren’t any in the official tee ball record book. They really don’t count those until League 3.”
“League 3, is that big kids?”
“Pretty big. Seven- and eight-year olds.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Seems like it.”

“M…N…O…P is for pitcher…”
“I’m going to be a pitcher…and a catcher,” Sam says.
“At the same time?”
“Sure. When do I get to pitch?”
“Well, that would be League 2, when you’re 9 years old”
I want to read more slowly.

“S is for Steal…”
“Steal, what’s that?”
“It’s when a runner goes from one base to the next without the batter hitting the ball. You won’t do that until League 1, when you’re 11 and 12 years old.”
“Like Mark?”
“Yep.”

“Z is for zeroes.”
Sam is puzzled. “Zeroes?”
“Zeroes across the board means the pitcher threw a perfect game. Nobody even got on base.”
“Whoa! I’m gonna do that.”
“I suppose that’ll happen in Babe Ruth League.”
“Where do I play after that?”
“After that it’s high school, then off to college.”
“How old will I be in college?”
“Nineteen years old.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s sooner than you think.” It’s sooner than I want it to be.
“I don’t want to go to college.”
“You will.”
At that moment, I didn’t want him to, either.

“The End.”
Wow, that was quick. I ask, “Want me to read this again?”
His eyes are closed. He’s probably dreaming about stealing bases, pitching a perfect game and catching; all at the same time. He’s already gone; sooner than I want him to be.

We’re getting our pictures taken Saturday; I drive to the field to pick up our uniforms. We don’t have practice before then, so we’ll conduct the annual ritual of passing out jerseys and changing in the car on picture day. Sam joins me, because this is a very important part of baseball. Last year he received the number with the line and the circle and he wants to make sure he gets it again. This year it’s a “ten” and he knows how to “spell” it.

Practices are over for the day; so the fields are empty. Sam wants to hit some balls on the real field. After he swings at 52 pitches – 24 tee balls and 28 tennis balls – the sun is setting behind home plate. Sam can still see to hit, but I can’t see to catch the balls before they hit me. He thinks he needs a few more swings, so I throw 28 more pitches…all tennis balls.

As coach, I declare practice over. As dad, I say it’s time to go home.

We search the field for the balls, and drop them into the standard plastic five-gallon bucket that all real coaches keep in their cars at all times. We’re walking off the field when Sam says, “Look at the sky…green, red, orange, yellow, blue.” Silhouettes of the fences and bleachers of the big kids’ field hover in the distance, along with the occasional squeal of serious baseball players squeezing out their last bit of practice breaks the silence.

Sam walks up next to me and takes the bucket from me, because, he surmises, my pitching arm is probably tired. He reaches up and holds my hand, looks up from under the bill of his new gray real baseball hat with the “N” on it and says, “Thanks, daddy…I mean coach…coach daddy.”

If you’re lucky, baseball is a tradition your father shared with you. And if you’re really lucky, it’s something you pass on to your son. Baseball is a sport of history and tradition starting with the myth of Admiral Doubleday, wool uniforms, the Yankees vs. the Brooklyn Dodgers, Wrigley Field, Babe Ruth and Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, and the Negro Leagues. The players are different, but “baseball” hasn’t changed. Nor will moments like this, moments that baseball gives fathers and sons.

“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“Can we go to Starbucks?”
Perhaps a few things have changed.

“Daddy, can we go to Ben’s game?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”

Ben’s a freshman in high school, but he gets to dress out on the varsity team for the sectionals. A tornado blew his other house away. So now he lives across the street from us. He’s tall and has three brothers: Nick, Sam and Fred. They play baseball too. Sam thinks it’s very cool.
We take our seats on the metal bleachers. “What are they doing?”
“Well, Sam, they’re taking infield and getting warmed up.”
“Is that big guy with the bat on Ben’s team?”
“No, he’s the coach.”
“Can I have a hot dog?”
“Sure.”
The lady in front of us turns around, looks at Sam, and smiles.

“Daddy, what did he do?”
“Well, that’s called a bunt.”
“It didn’t go very far.”
“No, it’s not supposed to. It’s called a ‘sacrifice.’ See, the guy from second got to third while they were throwing the batter out.”
“Does Albert Pujols do that?”
“Not much.”
“I’m not going to, either. Can I get a Gatorade?”
“Sure.”
“And some candy?”
“……Okay.”
The lady turns around again, this time chuckling lightly.

“Daddy, what happens if Ben’s team wins?”
“They play in the regionals next week.”
“Then what?”
“Well, if they win that, they go to semi-state. If they win there, they play in the state finals.”
“Can me and you go to all those games?”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Can I go play with Nick and Sam and Fred?”
“Yes, but check back with me a few times, okay?”
“Okay.”
This time the lady looks back and, still smiling, just sort of shakes her head.

“Sam, let go of my shoe. What are you doing down there?”
“I can’t get up there; it’s too crowded.”
“Okay, climb up.”
“Daddy, I have to poop.”
“Oh, Sam, can’t you wait until we get home?”
“No, I have to go real bad.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
The lady in front of us tries to hide her laughter, but I can see her shoulders bouncing.

“Did you see that? It was a home run double,” Sam says.
“It’s called a ground rule double.”
“What’s that?”
“When the ball bounces over the fence, the batter gets an automatic double. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Where’s Nick and Sam and Fred?”
“They’re still playing.”
“Are you going to go play with them?”
“No, I’m gonna sit with you for a while.”
Another smile from the lady in front of us.

“So what happens if Ben’s team loses?”
“Then it’s all over.”
“Forever?”
“Until next year.”
“Then what?”
“Well, after next year, he’ll have two more years in high school.”
“Then what?”
“If he’s good enough, he can play in college.”
“Then what?”
“If he’s really good, he’ll play pro. Or maybe some day he’ll have kids and he can be their coach.”
“Like you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna play baseball in high school.”
“Are you going to play pro baseball?”
“Well, maybe. Or I might be a coach like you.”
The lady in front of us turns all the way around. “Enjoy these times; they’re special,” she says.
I smile. “Yes, they are. So do you have a son playing?”
“Oh, no, my grandson is on the team. My son is the coach.”

Sam tugs on my sleeve. “Daddy, what did that grandma say?”
“Well, mostly she said baseball is special.”

Cathy and Sam discuss where he came from. “Sam, do you remember being born?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
“I was sad. I kept pushing and trying to get out of there.”
“How come?”
“Because I wanted to get to you and daddy.”

Another night, Sam and Cathy were saying their prayers. “Thanks for my mommy and my daddy, and grandma and grandpa, and my tummy mommy, and for my friends, and for our house, and for helping me be bad.”

Cathy looks over at him. He smiles…“Ahh, gotcha Jesus.”

Then one night, Sam thanks God for everything he can think of. Then he delivers a twist that would make any screenwriter proud: “Thank you for letting me be adopted.”

As Sam’s parents, it’s our responsibility to teach him, make him happy; to the best of our ability, remind him why he’s here on this earth. In Sam’s case, it’s our privilege to explain how he came to Cathy and me; to make sure he knows that we chose each other. Sometimes those roles are reversed.

“Thank you, God, for letting us adopt Sam.”