My Boy Doesn't Like Baseball

"Beat the drum and hold the phone. The sun came out today. We're born again, there's new grass on the field." - John Fogerty, "Centerfield"

 

"Um... No, that's okay." - The Boy

A backyard just perfect for a game.
Note the chair that would be handy for the strike zone.

Summer Vacation means a lot of things to a lot of people. For me as a child, it meant being able to stay up late so I could watch the Red Sox game on television. In the morning I got the behind the scenes information from the morning paper and made sure the division rivals lost so the Red Sox would be able to pick up a game on everyone.

After I had finished my research for the morning, I went outside to meet my friends and play baseball. Baseball was what we did in the summer and on the weekends during the spring. My father would pitch in games where I played against my brother. Games would be played in the driveway. I asked my father if he would park the car in front of the driveway so we had an actual wall to hit over for our games. My dad wouldn't do it and I could never understand why.

Bats by the door waiting
to be played with.

I'm a Parent Now

Fast forward to the glorious year of 2023. I'm now a parent. I have a glorious backyard that is fenced in. There are sundry bats and balls in the porch, the shed, and in the backyard. My youngest son is 9 years old. The age I was when I started watching the Red Sox. It was 1986 for me. That was a great summer. The fall was another story.

I was 9 years old when I started watching the Red Sox. It was 1986. That was a great summer. The fall was a different story.

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but for some reason my son refuses to play baseball. He doesn't like it. No baseball, no catch in the backyard. He won't even have me pitch to him and chase the ball he hits. My son, my red-blooded, American boy refuses to play baseball. I'm not sure how this came about. My family has many people who love to watch and play baseball. The men in my family love to watch games on television or in person.

Play me... or Don't

Not my boy. He has no use for the National Pastime. Baseball to him is boring. It almost broke my heart. Have you ever seen a grown man cry? That almost happened when I asked if he wanted to go out to the backyard on one warm, glorious morning. He said no. He had other things to do with his friends. Kids in my neighborhood aren't really into baseball. Nowadays it's Roblox, Minecraft. When I was a wee lad, I was creating baseball teams on Nintendo and Super Nintendo, trading and signing and releasing. now the children are building stuff that they can knock down with a digital pickaxe.

My red-blooded, American boy refuses to play baseball.

This, I thought, would be the "sweet spot" when it came to The Boy growing up and playing. This, ideally, would be the payoff after bottles and diapers. After years of pushing a stroller and watching him in a bouncy chair and having Tummy Time. Now it was time for throwing, catching, and going over the finer points of baseball with my son.

Could Have, Should Have

A brand new wiffle ball. A thing of
 beauty. If only someone wanted to
open it up and use it.

I blame myself. Maybe I should have been in the yard with him when he started to walk. Maybe I should have walked him up to the tee, put a big plastic bat in his hands and help him swing at that fat white ball with the plastic white stitches on it. You know the one I'm talking about. The bat is so big it looks like something out of the Flintstones. The ball is so big you can't miss the thing no matter what you're holding in your hands. Get the boy started that way and then work him up. Play wiffle ball in the backyard. Continue to pitch to him and soon he's playing baseball with his friends.

There were some glimmers of hope for me. The boy played baseball for a few years. Some of them I got to coach him. I loved being with him on the field. There were nights we would get something to eat at the concession stand after the game. I thought it was a great chance to talk about the game and see if he needed any help with anything. He didn't need help with anything. He just wanted to eat his chicken fingers, go home, and get on with his life. There have been other times during the summer where he did have a small spurt of wanting to hit the ball in the backyard. I was ready. I went out there and pitched as long as he wanted to hit. When this does happen, I'm the one who's asking for, "one more at-bat". Unfortunately, this doesn't last long, and he wants to go back inside where his screen is waiting for him and he can hook up with his friends who are waiting for him to join the latest game. Oh well, I can always hold out hope for my grandchildren.