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

Sam and I drop Cathy off at grandpa’s house. She is flying to Boston the next day to attend our nephew’s wedding. We have a tournament this weekend, so Sam and I stay home. Only one block from grandpa’s house, Sam says, “I miss mommy.”
“Sure you do. She’s been gone nearly thirty seconds,” I say, thinking that he is joking.
Now through what appear to be real tears, he says, “She’ll miss my last game.”
“Sam, are you serious?”
“Yes,” he replies, now sobbing. “Are there pictures of her at home?”
“This is not our last tournament,” I assure him. “Mom will still get to see many games.”
“It’s not fair. I’ve never been on an airplane. I never should have played all stars.”
Again, Sam is using every trigger to release the emotion he is experiencing over his mother’s absence. Tomorrow, for the first time, Sam will know that mom is not in the stands watching him. She will not be sitting there with all the other mothers to cheer for every accomplishment. She will not be there with the rest of them to feel the hurt and offer encouragement after the setbacks.
Dads are allowed to pace back and forth on the field or behind the backstop to calm the nerves. We can yell and scream at the umpires, at other coaches, in some cases at the players or even at each other, to release the tension.
For the most part, moms sit quietly and watch the game. Even those who do not understand the nuances of baseball watch every out; they watch every pitch. They are devastated with each error or strikeout; they celebrate every hit and catch. Moms feel the pain when their child gets hit by a pitch or a thrown ball, just as if the ball had pegged them. If given the chance, they would have gladly traded places and taken a shot in the ribs to avoid their child’s pain.
It is that kind of empathy I witness from Tyler’s mom one afternoon. Tyler’s team plays the game before ours. I stand near her behind the backstop. She is no longer able to sit in the stands and watch him bat. She informs me that he has been in a bad slump and is miserable. Tyler strolls to the plate. In keeping with his wishes, she does not yell any words of encouragement. He says it embarrasses him. I want you there, mom, but I don’t want you to yell anything, especially if I strike out. In a hushed voice and with a pained look on her face, she adds that he feels like he is letting his team down.
Her explanation is interrupted with each pitch as she twists and contorts right along with her son. Her body English escalates into a full pirouette as Tyler swings and misses the final strike. That kind of empathy creates the tears that she tries to hide as she quietly watches Tyler walk back to the dugout with his head down.
Moms smile and look on as the players and coaches hug and high five each other after a big victory. As they watch from a distance, no doubt they wonder what the coaches are telling their boys in the huddle after a tough defeat. As Sam instructed his mother when he was a three year old batboy for his cousin Mark’s team, huddles are just for players and coaches.
Following each game, our uniforms are hung up in the laundry room, clean and ready for an early morning game the next day. The mud has been knocked off Sam’s cleats and his equipment bag is unzipped in order to allow his sweaty equipment to dry out. She hands us our hats on the way out the door as we wander around in circles mumbling about where they could possibly be. When we arrive at the field, there is always one cold bottle of Gatorade in Sam’s bag and one in my ball bucket.
My mother arrives early to our game the next morning to assure that she gets a seat where she can see everything. She walks toward the bleachers dragging her oversized umbrella behind her. Not even the impending rain will keep her away. I help her up to the second row in the bleachers where she can see over the cross bar in the chain link fence.
Halfway through the game, the rain is steady. Mom is still in the stands, in the same seat in the second row, her umbrella now overhead. The rain worsens and we trail our opponent the entire game. By the end of a miserable loss, mom is the only fan left in the stands. Everyone else had retreated to their warm, dry cars. Following the team huddle, I walk over to the bleachers where she still sits. “What’s the deal, are you planning to stay for the next game too?’
“I can’t get down,” she explains.
“So that’s why you stayed for the whole thing.” Although, I know – and her expression confirms - that she would not have left, even if she could have.
Before Sam and I arrive home from grandpa’s house, Sam regains his composure and seems able to continue on without his mother for a few days. We enter the house and Sam asks, “Dad, can I sleep with you in your bed?”
“I don’t see why not.”
He smiles. “And, dad…?” he continues.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do I have to take a shower?”
“Well, maybe we’ll skip it just this once.”
We may wear dirty uniforms before it is over, but a weekend alone with dad has some advantages.

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.