Sounds of the Game

As we waited for the final game of the District Tournament to begin, Cooper sat on my lap, watching his dad hitting in-field to “his boys”. The sounds of the game were all around: music on the loudspeaker; fans in the stands; players shouting, “Right!” “Left!” “Cut!” But the sound that stood out the most to my intense and attentive four-year old son was the sound of the baseball against his daddy’s bat.

“Watch Daddy out there,” I said to my son. “See how he knows just where to hit the ball?” I could tell he was watching, taking it all deep within. “I like the sound of the ball on Daddy’s bat,” he said with all earnest and intrigue. “It sounds different than when the boys hit it,” he observed.

“That’s because it’s a special kind of bat. It’s called a fungo, and it’s made of wood,” I explained. “What time will I get to swing that bat?” he asked with eager anticipation. “Maybe when you get a little bigger,” I promised. “It’s an awfully big bat.”

As the game began, my boy sat at my side focused on the plays before him. He kept track of each run and knew exactly which team was winning at all times. I’ve never seen a kid so enthused about a game he’s never “officially” gotten to play. He knows when the player makes it safely on base, and he knows when he’s been thrown out. And when the umpire makes a call he doesn’t understand, he’ll ask, “Why did he call him out, Momma?” I give him the only answer I can think of that doesn’t paint the official as always the villain, “Well, I guess he just didn’t see it the way we did, Buddy.”

He understands a run-down, but doesn’t like to call it “a pickle”. Figurative language is still a head-scratcher for a just four and a half year old. He likes to watch the base runners take their lead and slide, head first, safely back into the base. He spends hours of his “off season” duplicating their every attempt.

Practice, to him, is pure joy. No amount of running the bases, fielding grounders or sliding into home could ever be considered hard labor. He understands the axiom, “Practice Makes Perfect” and lives it to it’s fullest.

He may be just a little guy, but he’s all baseball, and all fan. To him, like so many of us, there’s just nothing like a hard fastball coming across the plate, or a hanging curveball that one of his “Daddy’s boys” sends crashing out of the park, “Yeeeeaahhhh! Home Run, Momma!!” And a hive five to top it off.

He seems to understand the beauty of a long, hard, well-placed line drive into the outfield, and asks questions I’ve never heard from a preschooler. “Why didn’t that boy tag up, Momma?” or “Man! He scored all the way from first base!”

He’s doing his best to understand the strike zone, but like so many of the greats, he still finds it hard to lay off the high ones. “Two strikes now, Momma, right?” he will ask, calling for a grown-up confirmation of his newly-learned observation.

He’s discovered that there is an end to this game, this obsession he has come by so honestly. “There are three big tournaments at the end of the year. Our goal is to try and win them all,” I tell him with all hope and expectation. He seems to have some kind of grasp of that idea, but more times than not, he’ll just take it as it comes. “Is today a game day?” he’ll ask in all eagerness. And so the day begins.

On a good day at the ballpark, these are the sounds of my game. Questions asked by a boy falling in love.

As I look at my children, I see a passion for this sport that can only be explained by genetics. From mom and dad, to aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins, there’s just something about this game made for kids that sticks with us long past childhood. It makes us yell like madmen when the ump blows a call. Makes us pump our fists with satisfaction at a strike out that ends the inning, and makes us whoop and holler in unadulterated bliss at a ball sailing over the outfield wall.

As the first baseman fielded his last slow roller and we prepared for the game to begin, I whispered to the ballplayer on my knee: “You remember that sound you hear,” I said. “Remember how it makes you feel inside when you hear the ball crack off that black, wooden bat. Remember it’s your daddy out there.” I urged. “Remember, and whenever you hear it-no matter where you are-it will always feel like home.”

And that’s All in a day’s work!