May 18 2007
My One Good Memory of Baseball
I have one fond childhood memory of baseball, and it’s all thanks to my father. More on that in a minute.
Now that my son is on a tee ball team, I’m reminded of the one season I played baseball. I still maintain that I would have had a more positive experience had I started in tee ball like most of my teammates. There I was, at age 9, with boys age 11 firing the ball at me. I decided it just wasn’t for me, and with one baseball talent already under the roof, there was no pressure for me to keep playing.
I’m a coordinated guy, and I hit the ball well in practice. As a youngster and a beginner, however, I didn’t get to play in games much (this was before all the feel-goodery kept everybody in the regular batting lineup). I managed to touch bat to ball only once.
I dropped the bat and ran as fast as I could toward first, the ball blazing a trail for me.
It rolled foul just a few feet before it and I reached first base. I was crushed.
I’m sure my coaches were disappointed, too, as my brother’s reputation as a baseball wunderkind preceded me. (On a slightly related note, the only shot I took in a basketball game, also in my first and only season, was thanks to a screen my brother set for me as he screamed, “Shoot, shoot!” Chokes me up now that I think about it. I missed the shot, though. Obviously, it wasn’t a very good screen.) ;-)
Ah well. Can’t go back now, and there’s no reason to complain. At least I still have a good image to conjure (remember, I mentioned it at the top?).
On several occasions Dad walked around behind the living room TV to the built-in bookshelves and pulled down a large tome entitled, “America’s Best-Loved Poems.” Of course it was filled with rhyming verse that my English professors later would tell me were the devil’s spawn. Personally, I think as long is it doesn’t seem forced, and the author’s point or emotion is still conveyed, what’s wrong with rhyme?
My brother and I settled on the couch on either side of Dad as he turned the crisp pages. In his pleasing baritone voice he read “Casey at the Bat” with just the right amount of inflection to keep us hanging on each line.
The story within didn’t hurt, either. It had comedy, drama, pride, tragedy — everything a good story needs.
Originally published in 1888 in the San Francisco Examiner it can be read in its entirety, with an introduction explaining its origin, on Baseball-Almanac.com.
That’s my one good childhood baseball memory. If Ben ends up with more, then that’s great. If it turns out to be not for him, then that’s fine, too.
(Note: If you miss Pic of the Week, then please see Thursday’s post and scroll to the bottom to the bird pic. Satisfied?)
That poem will forever be associated with the Disney cartoon for me. And I get all goose-pimply every time I read or hear it. I just read it aloud to myself from your link.
There is something wonderfully awe-inspiring about how sport can infuse such strong sentiments of solidarity into otherwise disparate personalities. You feel very little natural kinship with the average stranger walking down the street. But sit them next to you in the bleachers at the bottom of the ninth inning and the joy or tragedy of the game will be shared unrestrainedly.
I have two fond memories of baseball.
1) Grape Soda after a game
2) Leaning that peering through a small hole will actually magnify an image. I learned this little jewel while standing bored in the outfield with my glove over my face. “No, seriously, coach…I can see the batter better!”
Needless to say, I was not the star player ;)
I too think of the cartoon with the oddly proportioned Casey when the poem is mentioned. My Dad didn’t do a whole lot of reading to us that I remember, but we did watch a ton of Indians games together.
I’m having reading problems right now due to excess tear production. When I first read Moksha’s second memory I saw “Learning that peeing through a small hole”. That’s the second time today I’ve done that, the first was when I mistook vulva for uvula over at Tiff’s No Accent Yet.
Somehow, guys, I missed that cartoon.
Simon - I know what you mean about the instant kinship. How else would self-respecting businesspeople stand next to complete strangers screaming “Whooooo, pig soooiiiiieee!” (three times in a row, no less) and still be able to face themselves in the mirror the next morning.
Moksha - I do recall the snow cones at the baseball concession stand. Yum.
The kids on Ben’s team are experts at putting their gloves over their faces, except instead of peering, they’re growling like monsters.
Blitz - “Peeing through a small hole”
Isn’t that what we guys do every time? (Granted, some are smaller than others.)
I mistook a vulva for a uvula once.
Once.
NEVER seen it?! Dude… watch it:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=O2F0qC1-sa0
And also? Never, ever tell us about that vulva-uvula thing. There are so many double-entendres in there waiting to happen I just don’t know where to begin. So I won’t.
Blitz - Well…I think both ways work. Peeing through a small hole can make things look bigger. Forced perspective and all.
And though I was a bad ball player…I wasn’t so horrid that I was taking a leak in right field.
Simon - Whoa. I’m glad I have my memory of it instead of that cartoon, but thanks for the link.
My brother was in Little League and I have memories of spending hours of my childhood on a field. The smell I remember??? Bazooka bubble gum….all flavors! :)
Hey, email me your address, please. I don’t have great memories of Little League Baseball. After my right eye became blind I decided to play softball. The bigger ball was easier to see now that my depth of field vision had changed. Honestly, Mark, I don’t remember you being that much of an athlete. You were the well-refined, English major loverboy. Sure we actually dated the same women at different times, but you usually got to them first. I can name 3 girls right now.
I never played sports as a child and was not encourage to do so by my parents. I’m not sure how I feel about that. :(