The Game
Baseball field, Brooklyn – 1984
Bottom of the sixth inning, last chance for the Braves, down 7-6, 2 outs.
Playing shortstop for the Giants, the seven-year-old boy who would grow up to pretend his name is Brett Grayson, waits for the pitch. The pitcher delivers (okay, I’m lying, it was T-Ball, no one delivered any pitch). The batter crushes a ball over the outfielder’s head. The Giants outfielder, who was in the outfield for a reason (not coordinated), retrieves the ball. The batter is rounding the bases, heading for home to tie the game.
The outfielder throws the ball to me, and I relay it home. The throw is hard and high. The catcher jumps, but it goes over his head. The umpire, standing behind the catcher, gets in the way of the throw, and it hits him right in the neck below the faceguard.
And he’s out! No, not the runner. The umpire. Out. Unconscious. Coaches run to his side and attend to him.
Me: (to my father) What’s the call, Dad? Is he out?
35 years later
It’s the morning of my six-year-old daughter Liz’s first T-Ball game. Many years of therapy have brought me to this point where I can attend a baseball game without the vision coming back of the umpire I murdered (fine, he just got the wind knocked out of him and was back up in thirty seconds. They called the runner safe and the game wound up in a tie, which to me was a worse result than the umpire’s death.)
Anyway, it’s Game Day and Liz is ready to represent The Angels.
“I’m on the Angels too,” my four-year-old son Matt says as we load up the car.
“No, he’s not,” Liz says. “It’s just for kindergarten.”
“Well, I think he meant because he’s your brother he feels like a part of it. Isn’t that what you meant buddy?”
“No, we’re all going to be Angels when we die.” Okay, that took a dark turn.
A little background before we reached this point:
- I took a three-hour safety course so that I could be one of the assistant coaches. I briefly debated about sharing my umpire murder story, but it was clear all parties just wanted to be done.
- I took Liz to buy a glove, bat and helmet.
“Sir, do you know what kind of bat you are looking for?” the store owner asks. “Aluminum? Wood?”
“She weighs 30 pounds. The smallest bat on Earth will do.”
“Aluminum is lighter. Are you sure they’re allowed to use aluminum?”
“Yes, of course.”
3. We attempted to practice in the backyard.
First throw (not exaggerating, literally first throw) misses Liz’s glove, bounces off her arm and hits her in the mouth. Her lip starts bleeding, which my wife Lauren deals with (she’s the parent when blood appears). Her arm is bruised, and I am forced to go to work:
Pre-game warmup – Baseball field
The smell of the grass makes it finally feel like spring. There’s nothing more American than baseball in the spring. I take it all in… and then I begin to sneeze because I’m allergic to grass.
I spot our opponents – The Yankees. I am normally a Yankees fan, but not today. I give The Yankees the death stare. I hate them. Animals.
“Everyone gather around,” the Angels head coach says. “We’re going to do soft tosses with a partner.”
Liz partners up. I make sure she’s following directions. She is of course. She may not be as big or strong as the boys. But at this level, simple instructions – like run to first base, or throw the ball softly to your partner, or smile for this team photo – she has the boys destroyed. 1 <———— Click on these red boxes for my terrible jokes
I look for Matt. There’s a part of me that thinks my son is going to be an athlete. I grew up with preconceived ideas of what boys should do.
I actually haven’t exposed him to sports much yet, though. Today is a good day to start. Where is he?
He’s in the woods behind the field.
“What are you doing, buddy?”
“I’m a kale hunter.”
“You’re a what?”
“Mommy eats kale trees.”
“Mommy doesn’t hunt for kale. Mommy gets kale at the supermarket. And I think kale is a plant.”
“Is it, Daddy?” I Google “kale” while he waits intently for the answer with the same excitement I watch sports with. He thirsts for knowledge on esoteric shit that only a contestant on Jeopardy would care about. 2
Gametime
The Yankees are up first. Each kid gets a chance to swing as many times as is needed to hit the ball. He or she then runs to first base, and gets to stay there. Then the next kid gets up and each of the runners advance to the next base until everyone has batted and scored.
There’s no outs counted. I have mixed feelings on this and think it falls into “participation trophy parenting”, but I do understand that we want to make this a positive experience.
Each team gets two full turns at bat.
Highlights of the battle:
-One Yankee batter would not swing the bat under any circumstances. She just stood up there and waited it out until the coaches took the bat away from her. One father even told her to pretend the T was a pinata, but to no avail.
-I stood with one of the fathers who was a little too enthusiastic about his son’s prospects as a professional.
Now I don’t write much about my athletic career. Partly because it was a lifetime ago. Mainly because it doesn’t fall in line with my self-deprecating humor. The important takeaway though is I was a good enough athlete that I don’t need to live vicariously through my kids. This is a rampant illness which has permeated our culture. When it pops up like it did today, I handle it the following way:
Father living vicariously: My son’s had a bat in his hand since he was 18 months old.
Me: My daughter thinks this is soccer.
-Liz came to bat in the first inning and hit the ball well. On her second at bat, the umpire (why is there even an umpire, poor guy) came running:
“She’s not allowed to use an aluminum bat.”
“She used it her first time up.”
“It’s league rules.”
“Fuck you, Ump.” (fine, I didn’t say that)
Liz then took a wood bat and in a subtle form of support for her pink aluminum bat, barely hit the ball with the impostor bat.
Game over
Final score 20-20 since every kid scored, though I would argue we really won 20-19 since the pinata girl never actually swung the bat.
The teams form a handshake line.
As for me, I’m glad my kids are being exposed to many activities until they find something they’re passionate about. Yet I’m quite confident neither of them has any passion for sports. Matt is heading down the botanist path. Liz was far more concerned about her appearance than the game itself – from wearing her own stylish gray pants instead of the team’s pants, to that pink aluminum bat, to this:
I also do not want my kids to get mixed up in the expectations that come with playing a sport, both self-imposed and those imposed by us as parents. While I didn’t take the game seriously, I legitimately became emotional when Liz got her first hit. You can’t help but want your kids to be special, which is okay if it’s for their own sake, but is dangerous if it’s for your own self-esteem.
I may be getting ahead of myself though. At the end of the game, all the kids cared about just one thing:
“Daddy, can we go to the playground?”
While Liz plays with her friends and Matt searches for tumeric, I pick up a ball and feel it between my fingers.
“7-6, relay to Brett, Brett throws to home,” I say out loud as I wind up to throw the ball.
I notice a few parents staring at me.
“Brett, you’re talking to yourself again,” my wife Lauren says. “We have to live in this neighborhood with these people.”
“Did I ever tell you the story about the championship game when I was seven?”
Lauren takes the ball from me.
“You almost killed an umpire. You’re so tough. I’m so turned on… before they arrest you, would you stop by the playground? You’re on duty.”
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My book is out and would make a great summer read or Father’s Day gift, since it’s about, you know, fathering.
And besides, Game of Thrones is over. There’s nothing left to do but read. So click the Amazon button.
