The two things I like to write about most in this space are family and baseball. Other things are nice, too, and they find their way into my musings on occasion, but the things that touch my heart the most are those two subjects. So when I can find a way to put them together, that’s about the most that I can hope for. And so it was recently, when I spent an hour or so playing baseball in a field in Wisconsin.
I should preface this by saying that I don’t have a son of my own. My two daughters are the greatest thing ever, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything at all. They humor me with my baseball from time to time, but neither one really took to the game. And that’s fine, because they have found things they enjoy doing. It’s just that baseball isn’t one of those things.
So when a friend’s son, who’s in between the ages of my own two daughters, asked me if I wanted to play some baseball with him, I was more than happy to do so. We had access to a field, ringed in cornfields so that it felt like something out of Field of Dreams. The afternoon sun was beating down, and we had to find a way of playing where the sun wasn’t in our eyes. But after a while, the sun went behind the clouds, and everything was fine.
I hit some fly balls and grounders to him, threw some batting practice to him, and caught some pitches that he threw to me. After about an hour or so, it was time to go back and have some dinner. It felt like making up for lost time, on some level. Who knows when, or if, I’ll have a chance to do something like it again. But it certainly was fun while it lasted.