Toward the end of second grade, a bunch of kids at school began talking about this game called baseball. It was kind of like kickball, except you played with bats and gloves and a much smaller ball. I wanted to play this game so I asked my Dad if he would buy me the necessary equipment so I could play with the other kids.
Dad was not sure about this at all, Unbeknownst to me at the age of seven almost eight, this equipment cost money and while I know now that my parents would have been considered the working poor, at that age I had no idea that a bat, a glove, and a ball would be a huge expense for my parents. I just knew my Dad said he didn't know, and I left for school feeling very sad, but as I ran out the door holding back my tears my Mom yelled, "We'll try to work it out, Mark!"
That day when I got home--voila!--there in the downstairs was a mitt, a bat, and a big white softball. Mere words cannot explain the joy. A short while later my Dad tossed me my first ball, I turned my mitt the wrong way, and it bounced off the glove and right into my upper lip, which proceeded to swell to about five times its normal size. With my Mom watching at my side, I felt no pain at all.
Baseball would eventually become an essential fabric of our lives. When I played Little League I was an awful hitter and my Dad would take me to the park and throw me pitch after pitch after pitch (to ultimately no avail) while my Mom, my sister, and my younger brother shagged balls. Eventually I would teach your Uncle Curt to play the game, and as we got older the love for the game would be passed to your older brother and big sister, by your Aunt Susie and Uncle John to all of their kids, by Curt to his son, and eventually from me to you.
And I'm sure you know of our lifetime love affair with the San Francisco Giants....
I note this today because, as you are well aware, we go see the fireworks here in Clarkston every year on the Fourth of July, in the same park, and you and I always spend time on one of the baseball diamonds before the show. Last night--because you are ten and being self-conscious has not yet caught up to you (and God how I wish it never would)--you hit your first big league home run, ran the bases, and high-fived your imaginary teammates in the dugout. You struck out the side in the bottom of the ninth inning to clinch another World Series for the Giants. And last but not least, you set a new record for running the bases--17 seconds from home plate to home plate.
You reminded me--as has the rest of the family so many times--of how much I love baseball. And your Dad wants you to know that as you ran the bases, as you fielded grounders, as you threw that final strike to win the World Series, you were beautiful.
The End
