TAKE ME OUT OF THE BALLGAME...

My sons have never seen me play ball.

Like most guys my age -- birth certificate says 42, voice in head says 32 -- I grew up playing baseball. Little League diamond, neighborhood park, backyard -- wherever there was a patch of grass and a handful of kids, a game might break out.

Of course, once I reached adulthood, the game was called “slow-pitch softball”, but many of the same techniques applied: Hit, catch, throw, argue with the umpire...

At the time I met my wife, I played on three different “beer league” teams. Which isn’t to say we weren’t serious about the game -- we were plenty serious (even if one of the teams was named “Hairy Fishnuts”).

We organized preseason practices, wore color-coordinated uniforms, talked smack to the opposing players.

“The batter’s got no stick, pitch! Just groove one in there and see if he can touch it! That’s right, serve him a little meat on a platter, pitch! I’m bettin’ this guy’s a vegetarian!”

Once I put on the band of gold, however, I quickly realized there was more to life than work and softball. So I cut back to two teams.

Then, with the arrival of my firstborn, I cut back to one team. This was my oldest group of friends, and the team itself dated back more than ten years. Yet, the guys were all becoming immersed in their families and, a couple years later, we decided to hang up our cleats for good.

Now, my oldest boy is nearly ten and a pitcher on his Little League team. I truly enjoy watching him play the game of my youth. It always triggers a flood of fond memories.

But this past weekend, something else was triggered. My wife and I attended a 40th birthday luncheon (that’s what middle-aged adults do, apparently) for the wife of one of my old softball cronies and former college roommate.

Sitting there nursing our beers, the guys began reminiscing about the old softball team. Ah, those were the days.

Of course, it didn’t take long before someone suggested we put the team back together (not unlike the Blues Brothers, I thought).

“Maybe we could join one of those over-forty leagues,” he said.

And that’s when it hit me: My sons have never seen their old man play ball.

Nope, they’ve never seen me attempt to stretch a single into a pulled hamstring. They’ve never seen me leave a six-inch patch of skin sliding on the concrete-like infield dirt. They’ve never seen me take a called third strike and slink slowly back to the dugout. They’ve never seen me roam the outfield, occasionally turning routine pop-ups into triples. They’ve never seen me overthrow the cut-off man, his backup, and the fence behind the dugout in one fell swoop.

Come to think of it, you guys go on without me. I think I’ll just leave the cleats hanging up in the garage.

After all, I wouldn’t want to upset the spider that’s built a fancy web in them.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.