For the most of this summer, my 11-year-old son has had the unique pleasure of living in a city with a winning baseball team. This has coincided with his own desire to play the sport a little more seriously. So almost every night for the past number of weeks, he has parked himself in front of the television, swinging a bat at the screen. Half the time he also wears his baseball uniform.
As far as I’m concerned, there is simply nothing cuter than an 11-year-old boy in a baseball uniform.
We’re in the final, nail-biting games before the end of the season, with our young team still with the best record in baseball, but nervous about actually making it to the big time. It’s kind of like this year’s presidential election – you know in your heart that the best candidate has the edge, but you just don’t want to jinx it by thinking it is so.
What is it about baseball that makes someone like me, who doesn’t know a hockey puck from a lacrosse stick from a touchdown from a free throw, actually like it? I went to a few games as a kid, saw the Mets at Shea and the Yankees at Yankee Stadium. I always liked the Mets because they were the underdogs, and I lived in New York in ’86 and felt the love.
But it certainly wasn’t enough to make me a true fan of the game. And for years I have lived in a house where basketball has been king, and all of my male children (including the one I married) are glued to the set during the entire NBA season. Not to mention football season, hockey season, and of course, now, baseball season.