The trophy is smaller than the memory it represents. Affixed to a low wooden block, the gold-painted figurine of a right-handed batter stands poised and ready to swing.
Ready to play baseball.
A tarnished plaque glued to the front of the wooden block commemorates a championship in the 1979 Lenoir County (North Carolina) Little Tar Heel League tournament.
It’s the only childhood trophy I still own. I’ve had it for 36 years.
The book’s dark green-black cover is tattered, the edges of its pages yellowed with age. But the title still shines in gold, all-caps lettering on the front: “HOW TO PLAY BASEBALL.”
Inside the front cover, an inscription is scribbled in blue ink: “To Carter and Jamie, From Daddy, Christmas 1976.” The book was published by the Sporting News and written by Don Weiskopf.
As a kid, I spent hours memorizing the technical advice disseminated in that book, staring night after night at the step-by-step illustrations that showed me how properly to field, throw, handle a bat and run the bases.
I learned about baseball fundamentals and strategy from that book. I also learned by throwing a pink rubber Spalding Hi-Bounce Ball against a brick wall over and over and over again, hitting the wall first to simulate a ground ball, hitting the ground on a short-hop to simulate line drives or popups.
My dad taught me how to do that.
This past weekend, after I registered our older son for his first youth baseball season, I went hunting for the trophy and the book. They have moved with me through life, from town to town, house to house. There is no set place for them to be, no display case in the office or special spot on a book shelf.
I always know where to find them, though.
I suppose the father-son-baseball dynamic has been done to death at this point. Field of Dreams pretty much ruined it for the rest of us.
But …
Yes, he’s a lefty, and yes, he can throw pretty hard. I hope he has fun and plays well, but mostly? I hope he appreciates and loves the game itself.
Now that my 9-year-old is poised to begin his baseball career, I can’t help it. Memories are flooding in. Baseball has always been a big part of my life. I played from the time I was 8 until I was 18, then I moved into softball for the next 20 years. I wrote about the game for many years for a newspaper, and I remain an honorary member of the Baseball Writers Association of America.
To watch my son take his first, halting steps into that world has been emotional for me. It makes me want to relive it, to go back and do it again, which is not my usual way of thinking. Ordinarily, I push forward, onward, moving toward the next thing, seeking the new and relishing the experience as I go.
Right now? All I want to do is hop on my old bike, thread my Dave Winfield model Rawlings glove over a handlebar, balance my bat in front of me and pedal off to meet my buddies down at the park for fielding and hitting practice. We did that on our own for hours and hours in the 1970s and ‘80s.
It was what we did for fun. And we all got pretty good at baseball.
I’ll be straight – I would love for my older son to perform well. I want him and his younger brother, when it is his turn in a couple of years, to go out there and tear it up on the diamond. I want them to be All-Stars, and I want them to enjoy every inning, every pitch, every triumph. To achieve their success, I am investing in all necessary tools and devices such as a baseball pitching training device and a magnetic baseball and softball lineup coaching board.
What dad doesn’t want that for his kids, whether we’re talking baseball or anything else in life?
I want them to succeed in the game and have fun, and I will do everything I can to help my sons do that – if that is what they want.
If not, I’ll never force them to play. If they do want to, though, I’ll sign them up and teach them the fundamentals they’ll need (at minimum) to avoid injury. As they grow into the game, if they want to learn more, I’ll offer guidance and point them to coaches and peers who know what they’re doing.
But that’s all for later. Now, I’m still trying to get my mind around the depth of emotion I’m feeling as my older son begins to play this game I have loved for so long.
I suppose I’ll never know how his relationship with the game will be influenced by my own love for it. After all, there is no way to gauge how much of my attachment to the game is based on my love for the sport itself, and how much was determined by my father’s demonstration of his devotion to baseball when I was a kid.
I’m not sure the distinction matters, in the end.
What I do know is my relationship with the game has come full circle. I feel like I’m learning it all over again, while simultaneously serving as a guide for the start of my son’s lifelong journey with baseball.
So, here we are, like that little golden figurine on my old trophy, poised and ready to hit, waiting for that first pitch. Ready to play baseball.