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

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.