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GenePool
Humor
Spring Training
Ahhh, springtime. It's that special time of year in New England, when we hardy New Englanders wake up to the bright sun, come streaming out of our homes in excited droves, and then stream right on back in again because it's still too goddamn cold out.
Spring brings baseball, and every year around this time we gather-- at Fenway, in front of our TV sets, around our radios-- in the time-honored tradition wherein we attempt to determine just exactly how badly the Red Sox will suck this season.
It is also a time for our offspring to go out and play the sport themselves. For only by playing the game can they truly grow to understand the game, and, only by developing this understanding will they truly grow to appreciate just how much the Red Sox suck.
On this particular spring, two remakable things happened. The first is that both of my children elected to try out for baseball teams. The second is that the Red Sox do not suck.
The idea to try out for baseball was Becky's. Last summer, when she and Tim elicited a faint glimmer of interest I immediately purchased gloves for both of them, got a ball, and brought them out into the nearest field, at which point I proceeded to do both of them great harm. Because the ball is hard. If you have never personally played the sport this may be a surprise; it certainly was to them. Also, a child who has never attempted to catch a baseball with a baseball glove before will invariably do it in the most incorrect way possible. Often, the glove proved useful only in shielding their faces as they slapped the ball to the ground.
It was, in short, not a rousing success.
Nonetheless, a year later and fully healed, Becky wanted to try out for a team. Being a tremendous baseball fan (I would be legally disinherited otherwise) I thought this was a great idea. I turned to Tim and asked if he wanted to try out as well. It took several repetitions as he was busy at the time chasing after the dog with a pointed stick, but I eventually got an "okay" from him. This made me extremely happy, because now I have a chance to make up for my own childhood shortcoming by reliving them through my son, riding him mercilessly and accusing him of not trying hard enough, and also setting obscenely high goals for him so that he can live out the rest of his life thinking he's a failure. Because baseball is fun.
I felt slightly embarrassed about handing over an eight and nine year old with almost no experience with or comprehension of the sport over to our local little league program, because, as is well-known, the skill level of one's child in sports is a direct reflection of one's manhood. After tryouts, though, I was less concerned, for two reasons. One, there is evidently a severe manhood deficiency in the city of Cambridge, based on the other children also trying out. Two, during the tryouts, my children did something remarkable. In a test of basic skills, the ball was hit to Tim. His job was to get the ball, and then throw it the length of the gym (of course the tryouts were indoors; it'd goddamn cold) to Becky, who was to catch it. So in this revelatory moment, Tim fielded the ball cleanly and threw it as hard as he could, which meant much further than Becky was. She managed to back up, leap, and actually catch the ball. It was as if God said "there you go, now don't ask any more favors, okay?"
Now they have regular practices. For reasons unclear to me they ended up on different teams, but I'm not complaining because at least they're both ON teams. Becky has proven to be quite durable if not all that capable. She tends to swing at the ball much in the way one would swing an axe, and this downward chopping motion hasn't yielded much success, per se, but she has also not grown discouraged. There's even an outside chance she's enjoying herself.
Tim I'm not so sure about. Skill-wise, he as work to do, but that's not what worries me. As happy as I was to hear Tim wanted to try out for baseball, at the same time I was concerned, because I just don't know if he's quite ready for it psychologically. In fact, there's this big ball of anxiety in my stomach called "Tim Playing Baseball" that I've been trying to digest for two weeks now. His coach already thinks I'm crazy. I hover around practices-- in my leather coat, no less, which makes me look like a drug dealer-- and watch for signs of the dreaded "forget it, this is too hard" expression to cross my son's face. I've seen this face many many times before, although usually in conjunction with homework. If he can't do something well right away he tends to quit, and the only reason this hasn't been an issue before is that there are a lot of things he can do well right away. If he decides to quit baseball it certainly wouldn't be the end of the world-- he'd probably try again next year-- but since the available pool of players is so small it's conceivable he would leave his team with fewer than nine players. This would reflect very poorly on my manhood indeed.
Which brings me to Saturday. I am very fond of Saturday in general, as it is the only day when I am allowed to sleep in for any appreciable length of time, but this particular Saturday had an added glow to it because of the Red Sox. The Yankees were in town, and Pedro Martinez was matched up against Roger Clemens, and if you know anything about Major League Baseball you understand that this is the most significant cultural event in the history of Boston, and possibly the world. And I was going to miss it. Tim's team was having a scrimmage at two P.M. It wasn't just any scrimmage, either. It was against the Rockies.
I had seen the Rockies practice once. It looked like a military exercise. In contrast, Tim and Becky's practices tend to resemble a M.A.S.H. episode.
I could not be there for the start of the scrimmage, due to errands that had more to do with Easter than the Sox game. I dropped him off, did what I had to do, and returned, carrying a radio because, well, Pedro was pitching. I found Tim sitting on the bench, waiting eagerly for his turn at bat much in the way he waits eagerly for the dentist.
"Did you get a chance to bat yet Tim?"
"Yes."
"Did you do well?"
"NO."
"Well, that's okay!"
"They throw hard! I want to GO."
I wasn't going to take him home, though, even though Pedro was pitching, because baseball is FUN, and dammit, he was going to stay in that field until he found the fun. "Tim!" I'd shout, "get back out on the field! The fun is out there somewhere!"
An inning later, the whole thing fell apart. For starters, Pedro had only a 2-1 lead, which would ordinarily be no big deal except the Yanks had Soriano on third. Also, Tim was hit by a pitch.
The ball hit him in the right arm just below his shoulder. (Attention anal-retentive baseball readers: Tim is indeed right-handed. However, for reasons known only to him, he bats lefty. This is how he could get hit in the right arm.) He immediately walked off the field-- they put another runner at first for him-- took off his helmet, and with tears in his eyes asked if he could please just go home already.
But dammit, I didn't raise a quitter! No son of mine is going to cry over a little BUMP, nossir, he was going to march right back onto that field and take his base!
No, of course I'm not really like that.
I did have a problem, though, because Tim was of the opinion that the manager of the other team had told the pitcher to throw the ball right at him. He formulated this opinion not long after hearing the coach say to the pitcher "throw the ball right at him." The coach was, however, referring to the catcher, not to Tim. (At least, I hope so.) It took a while to disabuse him of this notion. He'd also concluded that baseball was much too difficult, and he didn't want to do it any more, and this would make it very difficult for him to find the fun if he is no longer lookiing for it.
I told the coach this and he immediately summoned the team psychiatrist-- his wife-- who attempted to use guilt to convince Tim to at least come back for the next practice. I didn't particularly appreciate this approach, insofar as if anyone's going to use guilt to get my son to do something, it's going to be me, and I'm not going to do it because guilt does not work on Tim. But between the two of us we were able to get him to agree to give baseball another try.
And to make matters worse, Pedro wild-pitched Soriano home to tie the game, which the Sox later lost.
But as I said, the Red Sox do not currently suck, and they took three of four from the Yankees. Also, Becky's learning how to hit the ball better, and Tim is going to be at practice again on Wednesday. At best I think I've bought my manhood a temporary reprieve, because I'm just not sure Tim is going to locate the fun this year.
This is too bad. I think with a little work, like, say, four hours a day, he's got a shot at the majors.
Okay, I'll stop.
© 2001, Gene Doucette
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