Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Take me out to the ballgame...
Over the last few months, I've started a number of posts, only to abandon them. Usually, I've intended but failed to return the next day to polish a thought or to write a meaningful ending. Often the boys have done or said something in the intervening hours that has become fresh fodder for writing. Sometimes I've simply given myself over to more pressing matters like sleep. Even though some of the material will be out of season, I've decided to attend to some of this unfinished business. I hope that you'll forgive the anachronistic aspects of these stories and enjoy them for what they are.
*****
From October 23:
When I was a student in what is now called "middle school", I loved the Houston Astros. Pressing a small battery-operated radio close to my ear, I'd lie in bed at night listening to games until I fell asleep. So tranquilizing were the rhythms of the games that I recorded them on a tape recorder, then let the announcers' voices lull me to sleep even when the Astros weren't playing.
My ardor as a baseball fan has weakened in adulthood. I usually tune in for part of the World Series, but I know nothing of the rosters or rivalries or drama of the season. This October, though, I was gripped with the baseball fever that swept Houston as the Astros came within a game of their first trip to the World Series. I suspect that my enjoyment of the Astros' late-season success had much to do with my own private nostalgia trip, but whatever the reason, I savored it while it lasted.
The night that the Astros lost Game 7 of the National League series to the Cardinals, I was reading in bed as the Yankees and Red Sox provided comforting ambient noise. I'd put Max to bed over an hour earlier. And then he tiptoed into my room.
"Can I get into the bed with you, mommy?"
"Of course you can, Max."
Max clambered onto the high pencil-post bed and crawled under the covers. Assuming Lee's place alongside me, Max scooted backwards until his head was propped up on the pillows. He placed both hands behind his head, elbows jutting outward like wings. How many times have I seen Lee strike the same pose? Max could have been 3 or 43.
Max was silent for awhile. Then he chirped, "What are we watching, mommy?"
"A baseball game."
He studied the television earnestly.
"What are those men doing?"
"Well, one man is throwing the ball, and the other man is trying to hit the ball with his bat. Did you see how the batter tried to hit that ball?"
"Yes, like I hit the ball with my bat," Max said, taking a practice swing in the air.
"And if the man hits the ball, then he tries to run around the bases. And he runs the bases in the shape of a square." With the basic shapes under his belt, Max delights in discovering them in the world around him.
Just then the batter hit a single into right field, advancing the runner to third.
"Do you see how the batter ran and made one of the four lines on the square?
"Yes."
On any other evening, I might have pressed Max to return to bed. But tonight we watched, shoulder to shoulder, as our national pasttime began to work its wonders on Max's consciousness. Periodically Max would turn and flash a beaming grin at me as if to say that a delicious secret was being revealed to him, and I had let him in on it.
In that moment, I peeked through the window that sometimes separates men and women and caught a glimpse of the joy fathers must experience when, after a hiatus of two decades or more, they take to the Little League field with their sons. Max let me in on that secret, and it was just as precious.
*****
From October 23:
When I was a student in what is now called "middle school", I loved the Houston Astros. Pressing a small battery-operated radio close to my ear, I'd lie in bed at night listening to games until I fell asleep. So tranquilizing were the rhythms of the games that I recorded them on a tape recorder, then let the announcers' voices lull me to sleep even when the Astros weren't playing.
My ardor as a baseball fan has weakened in adulthood. I usually tune in for part of the World Series, but I know nothing of the rosters or rivalries or drama of the season. This October, though, I was gripped with the baseball fever that swept Houston as the Astros came within a game of their first trip to the World Series. I suspect that my enjoyment of the Astros' late-season success had much to do with my own private nostalgia trip, but whatever the reason, I savored it while it lasted.
The night that the Astros lost Game 7 of the National League series to the Cardinals, I was reading in bed as the Yankees and Red Sox provided comforting ambient noise. I'd put Max to bed over an hour earlier. And then he tiptoed into my room.
"Can I get into the bed with you, mommy?"
"Of course you can, Max."
Max clambered onto the high pencil-post bed and crawled under the covers. Assuming Lee's place alongside me, Max scooted backwards until his head was propped up on the pillows. He placed both hands behind his head, elbows jutting outward like wings. How many times have I seen Lee strike the same pose? Max could have been 3 or 43.
Max was silent for awhile. Then he chirped, "What are we watching, mommy?"
"A baseball game."
He studied the television earnestly.
"What are those men doing?"
"Well, one man is throwing the ball, and the other man is trying to hit the ball with his bat. Did you see how the batter tried to hit that ball?"
"Yes, like I hit the ball with my bat," Max said, taking a practice swing in the air.
"And if the man hits the ball, then he tries to run around the bases. And he runs the bases in the shape of a square." With the basic shapes under his belt, Max delights in discovering them in the world around him.
Just then the batter hit a single into right field, advancing the runner to third.
"Do you see how the batter ran and made one of the four lines on the square?
"Yes."
On any other evening, I might have pressed Max to return to bed. But tonight we watched, shoulder to shoulder, as our national pasttime began to work its wonders on Max's consciousness. Periodically Max would turn and flash a beaming grin at me as if to say that a delicious secret was being revealed to him, and I had let him in on it.
In that moment, I peeked through the window that sometimes separates men and women and caught a glimpse of the joy fathers must experience when, after a hiatus of two decades or more, they take to the Little League field with their sons. Max let me in on that secret, and it was just as precious.
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