The strip between two apartment buildings was perfect for tossing and hitting Wiffle balls. My son had a two-tone, wooden t-ball bat and a small glove. A old tree stump, cut almost level with the ground, made a pretty good natural home plate. He loved to go just outside the front door, where there was a long stretch of sidewalk, and have me pitch to him. I can’t begin to recount the number of those plastic balls he hit up on the rooftops. Didn’t take long before I bought sleeves of the ultra-cheap plastic balls at the dollar store; those didn’t last long either.
One day, as we sat in my apartment, he was looking at his glove. He turned to me and said “You should get a glove so we can play catch.” Anyone who has watched Field of Dreams knows precisely which scene materialized in my head and heart—and if you haven’t seen it you should. I have read, many times, that grown men wept in the theater during its original release. More than one claimed to have something in their eye, though.
I remembered playing catch with my dad, the smell of the lawn in the backyard, which always made the transition to the grass out in left field where I played; I could do less damage out there.
And the pop-up pitch toy, complete with yellow plastic bat, plastic balls, and a mini-catapult that tossed the ball up when you stepped on the pedal. It didn’t help my swing much—I sucked at hitting. I had a serious golf swing. Would have been far more advantageous to my future had I taken up the sport my last name implies, but I’ve never golfed either, save for my Little League at-bats.
I may have been a lamentable little leaguer, but I wanted to build, at the very least, an appreciation for the game of baseball in my son.
So off to the store we went.
I selected a functional (read: cheap) Rawlings outfielders glove and took home the best $30 I ever spent.
The summer sun would cast a nice, deep shadow on the golf course green immediately adjacent to the complex where I lived, so in the late afternoon we would go out and play catch for a while. On the private golf course. Ironic now that I think about it.
Wasn’t long before we realized the one ball we had wasn’t going to cut it, so we got three practice balls. They were softer than the real thing, ideal for a young boy just learning the mechanics of throwing and catching, and not as jarring if he hit them with his t-ball bat.
Slowly our inventory of baseball equipment grew: more baseballs, wooden bats, an aluminum bat, batting gloves, helmets, etc. This was all so we could tote the stuff around to different parks and hit and throw. For the first couple of years it was just he and I, spending some great quality time together just doing our own thing.
As he grew he could hit farther and run faster. We would move onto softball fields and practice grounders and fly balls, white dots soaring into the blistering heat of Arizona summer afternoons, then landing with a soft pop into his glove. We would sweat and laugh, guzzle Gatorade and jump fences to retrieve one ball, the whole time neither of us truly cognizant of the magic taking place inside us.
Eventually he came to a point where he was ready to play organized ball—at age 13. I found a Babe Ruth league and signed him up. He’d never pitched or played first base, but that’s what he told the coach he wanted to do. First base would have to wait, but he got a taste of pitching—as a leftie—and playing outfield. The pitching coach loved working with him because he was a clean slate, no bad mechanics or habits to break. His teams came to depend on him to throw a good game because they could rarely field anything hit. In May of 2010 he earned his first complete game shut out, a 6-0 victory for a fairly hapless team; that day, I must say, however, that day his team played some decent defense. He has that game ball in a case on his shelf today.
My son hasn’t stopped playing since. His first year of high school he tried out for the freshman squad but got cut; having a case of pneumonia two weeks prior to try-outs didn’t help his cause. Baseball, though, was now in his blood, so he kept playing on the league teams—they were indescribably bad but the experience they afforded was beyond measure. I got to participate as an occasional umpire for scrimmage games and tossed batting practice for him and his teammates. But there always remained he and I, often getting to practice or games well in advance of other players to field pop flys or grounders, or take a good number of swings before his mates showed up. For him it was practice; for me, a not-to-be-missed opportunity to let my inner little boy practice with my son.
Those days are fading now, quickly but surely, like an old Polaroid photo. But his father takes quiet, reserved satisfaction in watching him participate in our national pasttime.
Last year, his sophomore year, he again tried out for the JV squad . . . and barely made it. He saw little playing time but once again gained valuable experience in doing something his old man never did. When the season ended he continued playing in the league, pitching and playing a very good first base.
Just last week came the try-outs for his junior year. All the league play, passion, and desire would need to be brought to bear to make it this year. Four days it went, Monday through Thursday. As I waited in the high school parking lot for him to finish I could not escape the notion that he would open the truck door and in mere seconds another watershed moment in our lives would come and go.
He made the team.
I have a newer glove now, one made of actual leather; the old one began to tear and slowly fall apart. We have some catchers gear we got a fantastic deal on through Craigslist. Both he and I have a bucket of baseballs, our last name written large in fat, black Sharpie ink on their hides. I will always keep that $30 glove though. It is a weathered, priceless reminder of a father and son playing catch for the first time.
What a beautiful story. Reminds me of when my son was younger. I wish they didn’t grow up so fast.
Isn’t that the truth, Ellen? Thanks for taking the time to read it!
A Very nice heartfelt story and lots of memories for you and your son.
I. Am. About. To. Cry. I was feeling it…I didn’t have a father to pitch a ball to me, but I do remember playing softball with the neighborhood gang in the vacant lot across from where I lived with my grandmother. What memories. It was so touching to read your story, Jeff. You’re a fantastic storyteller. ;o)
Awwwww. Thanks, Dorothy. It is an achievement to tell a story well, an event of soul if you can move someone with it.
I nodded so many times reading this article that I probably looked like a bobblehead. Baseball is my son’s passion, too. We had the same little plastic tee with the pop up ball and he was knocking balls off of it in the kitchen as soon as he could stand (which was relatively late). He’s not the most coordinated kid on the block, so he’s had to work hard. I could go on for pages about this and my memories of playing neighborhood games with my dad (rare but memorable).
Thanks so much for sharing. My son is a freshman and will be trying out for the high school team in a few weeks – the butterflies have been warming up in my stomach for at least a month already.
And just so you know, I almost cried when I read your son made it his junior year. I swear this is harder on the parents than it is on the kids. But so worth it!
Hope you have a great season!
This is such a sweet story, Jeff. Field of Dreams is a wonderful movie. I have to admit that I’ve tried to get two of my three kids into baseball and neither wanted much to do with it. I guess if you play hockey too, baseball seems kind of slow.
Still, I have memories of playing catch with my son in our backyard. That little boy got married last year. My daughter is much more interested in Justin Bieber than in playing catch right now. Sigh!
It’s tough to watch our kids grow up and change, but it’s satisfying too. Holding onto those memories makes the short time we have with them so much more meaningful.
Thanks for the great post.
Cheryl
Heartwarming post , thanks!for sharing.
Memories being created to be cherished for the next generations, beginning with your son. I hope this story gets out to parents …there was not a mention of electronic devices ( except Craiglist), just bats, balls and gloves and a precious relationship being tested, nourished and preserved between father and son through baseball. Beautiful.
What a beautiful and heartfelt story, Jeff. I have chills after reading it. Your love for your son shines through, without doubt. What a wonderful Dad you are. I wish more Dads out there took the time to bond with their children as you have done. Find something that can truly be special and memorable, to hold on to for all time. I commend you deeply and with all my heart.
You may have noticed, Frances, no mention, not the slightest insinuation, of the Yankees. Until now. You see, history shows us that every dynasty becomes corpulent and hubristic of itself and must eventually be reduced to the common soil from which it arose. I hope I am alive to see the Yankees so tarnished.
You may have heard, but Jesus hates the Yankess, too. ;^)
As for April, to my knowledge she holds no such un-ladylike allegiances to evil empires. And look at all the kind things she said . . . April showers, indeed.
Cheryl, I didn’t think you were but late 30’s, much less that you had a son who recently married! Thank you for stopping by and commenting. I know you, like Dorothy, are perpetually busy with tours and such.
And Kate . . . I have not forgotten you. Your comments echo so many others, which means that truth lies in all ideas expressed even though they were not given life with words themselves. My dad played baseball as a kid, too, but what I have learned most from my parents isn’t about baseball, rather the value and necessity to not let life’s true richness go by unnoticed.
One day, Mr. Jeff, your son will be playing in a Yankees uniform on a multi-billion dollar contract and I hope to still be here to remind you of your comment to me. I like to see a man eat crow now and then.
“…the moving finger writes; and, having writ moves on: nor all thy Piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line nor all thy tears wash out a word of it…”
Thanks, Omar, for helping me make a point here in defense of my favorite team. Go Yankees!
Well, you see, Jeff, if you are a baby when you have a baby, you tend to be a young mom your entire life. I’ll also be a young grandma one day–or should I say yia-yia.
Such a beautiful post! We just signed my little girl up for soccer, but it stemmed from us just kicking around a ball in the backyard. No matter what she achieves in the future, I’m sure kicking around a pink soccer ball in the yard will be what I remember most.
Also, YES, Field of Dreams is an awesome movie. Your post made me want to dig it out and watch it again. 🙂