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

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.