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

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.