For Love of the Game

I have a new appreciation for baseball.

I’ve always enjoyed professional baseball. Growing up in New Jersey, my friends and I followed the Mets. This continued with my first post-college boyfriend who was a hardcore Mets fan and nearly cried with joy in 1986 (sorry Sox fans). I then became a Red Sox fan when I began dating my husband, who actually did cry with joy in 2004 and 2007 (not much crying lately though).

My renewed appreciation for baseball comes from my son’s recent return to a 4th grade baseball team.

Both of my children played t-ball in Kindergarten. I have to admit that I thought the “t” stood for torture. Baseball can be a slow game, but t-ball can be interminably slow. The t-ball field is conveniently located at the intersection of two extremely busy streets, with no fence to keep spectators or players from running out into the road. At the time when my 6-year old son played t-ball, my -3-year old had to remain strapped into his car seat in my van watching videos for the duration of the game. The alternative was to spend an hour and a half chasing after my toddler, trying to keep him from becoming a grease stain in the road.

I did appreciate the tee which allowed my sons to actually hit the ball (most of the time). However, when my kids were in the field, they failed to grasp the finer points of the game. Whenever a ball was hit anywhere near them, they (and about 20 of their teammates) would run in a clump towards the ball, hoping to be the one to grab it. Not that there would be anyone left on base to throw it to (they would all still be in that clump). At the end of every game, just when I thought, “Thank God, it’s over,” the coaches would inevitably say, “Hey, how about one more inning?”
My older son played a year of rookie ball, but after repeatedly being reprimanded for sitting down in right field, he admitted that he found baseball to be too slow and boring. That year he switched to soccer instead.

My younger son never picked up a bat or glove after a year of t-ball. The game was just a little too slow for him, and his frustration level at never actually catching the ball (too many kids nearby) proved overwhelming. We stored our baseball gear in the garage.

Fast forward four years. My younger son is now in 4th grade, and just when I thought soccer was his game, he suddenly announced that this spring he would like to take another crack at baseball instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do soccer again?” I asked hopefully. Soccer involved only one practice and one game a week.

“Nope, I want to try baseball.” He said firmly.

Reluctantly, I signed my son up for a baseball skills class at an indoor sports center. The 12-week class taught him the basics of hitting and fielding, while adding in plenty of running and stretching as well. It also included an invaluable private batting lesson and an hour of free batting time every Friday night. He also participated in a week-long skills camp over April vacation. Trying to cram four years of baseball experience into three months wasn’t easy, but when the first game rolled around, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

He was disappointed with his first at bat: he struck out. A few silent tears rolled down his face as he struggled to keep his composure on the bench. This did not bode well. The next time at bat he walked. The next time… another walk.

After a couple of games, I nicknamed him Walker Texas Ranger since his strength lay in the pitcher’s weakness. A few more games and he started getting hits. He got an RBI. He stole second base. He stole third base. He started chewing sunflower seeds and giant wads of gum. His motivation for playing well is the snack bar next to his field. A game that was once too slow for him is now just his speed.
And my attitude has changed since t-ball. Though I initially prayed for rainouts, I’m now okay spending two nights at the field every week. Game night dinners are casual (hot dogs or pizza). Though baseball games last twice as long as soccer games, there is an unhurried, languidness to the game. What felt interminably long a few years ago now feels like an opportunity to slow down, enjoy a warm summer night, socialize with other parents and cheer on all the players equally.

I’ve come to enjoy watching my son play. I like hearing his infinitely patient and supportive coaches call his name in their thick, Boston accents: “Coop-ah!” I like that he doesn’t get upset if his team loses. I like that he feels good about himself.

And I like his answer when I asked if he wanted to play summer baseball.
“No thanks, it’s too hot.”

Whew!