Running on a field of dreams

I love baseball.  I was never any good at it myself.  I have memories of watching in shame as the ball rolled between my legs in left field. Later, when the pitchers started throwing breaking balls, I could never tell what was coming to me as a batter, probably because I wouldn’t wear my glasses. In my last game playing baseball in eighth grade, I was hit in the face by a fast ball that I mistook for a curve. No, I wasn’t any good as a player, but I loved to watch the game.  Growing up in Southern California, I rooted for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Those were the days of the great pitchers Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax, and the base-stealing shortstop Maury Wills. My baseball glove was the “Don Drysdale Signature” model. The Dodgers’ arch rivals were, and still are, the San Francisco Giants. I remember watching TV in horror when San Francisco batter Juan Marichal took issue with something the Dodger catcher John Roseboro had said, turned around and hit him in the head with his bat.  A melee ensued. But as evil as the Giants seemed to a young Dodgers fan, I couldn’t help but admire their center fielder, Willie Mays, one of the most spectacular players of all time.

My son and one daughter played baseball and softball competitively all the way through high school. Now watching my son pass on his love of baseball to his son is about as good as it gets.