1976c - Cats in the Cradle

by Harry Chapin

And he was talkin' 'fore I knew it, and as he grew
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."

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When I was seven years old, I played T-ball. I was on the 'Yankees' - a team coached by Maury Mills' dad and we were the victims of several 20-0 shutouts before the game was called by forfeit / superior decision. This was a time when teams were also limited to 10 batters (the full rotation) before having to switch, three outs or not.

I played third base, a unique distinction for any lefty. I suppose it was because I had a pretty strong arm and could throw the ball from third to first without having it bounce before it hit the first basemean's glove.

I remember one of the Griffey boys (can't remember it if it was Charlie or Keith) was up to bad and that particular day I was playing the pitcher position. Griffey hit a line drive right at me. This was before anyone realized I needed glasses, so I didn't see the line drive until after the baseball left an imprint in my forehead.

After being hit, I collapsed to my knees. It ended up being an in-the-park homerun, seeing as nobody rush to field the ball sitting in front of me.

Mr. Mills and my father were there after the commotion settled down. Mr. Mills told me I should've fielded the ball before worrying about the bruised forehead (and ego). I am pretty sure that i sat out the rest of the game. The bump turned into a large welt. I laid on the couch afterwards, applying an ice pack to the large bump.

It wasn't however, my only learning experience that year. One practice, we played the boys versus their fathers. My father played second base. By coincidence, i hit a line drive straight at him. He caught it in his glove and I was out.

I stopped running to first and went toward the dugout.

Mr. Mills was shouting towards me, "Run it out! Run it out!"
I turned around and took a few steps towards first. My father had dropped the ball that I had hit to him. It was an honest mistake any father would make, "accidentally" committing an error to let his boy get on base.

Only I did not run it out.

When I watch baseball games today, I notice professional players loping from home to first after a slow looping pop fly or a grounder towards first. I guess it's human nature to give only the lowest amount of effort necessary for any given situation, when we should be running it out.

It's also notable that we have a picture of me playing third base in my black Yankees uniform and grey fielder's pants. The same hoop-like baseball glove I own now (and plan on giving to my great nephew Bryce, who is also a southpaw) was the one I used then. In the picture, it sits on top of my right knee. I'm sitting on the base, waiting for someone to hit a ball toward me.

At that point, I suppose I planned to spring into action, running down the grounder or field the line drive. I also suppose several balls were hit my direction, since there was all this space between shortstop and the place where I sat comfortably on third base.

Mr. Mills probably coached me about that, too. Who knows? I liked baseball in theory, but not in reality. Never enough to play baseball and wait for someone to hit a ball my direction. Lots of waiting and very little action.

I preferred throwing the ball back and forth on the sidewalk in front of my house with my dad or my brother. Even more so, I preferred playing wiffle ball with Mike Klein, Doug Leonard, or Victor Lombardo, who lived directly behind me. There were four brothers in his family, all around my brother's age. There were also some other neighborhood kids that lived nearby and played baseball in our backyard, hopping fences to field long fly balls while the batters raced around the bases - either pieces of torn cardboard or patches of dirt that had been worn from use and overuse.

Still, there are few things like a baseball game, no matter the field. Maybe it's just because we tend to romanticize those special moments when the whole game is on the line. We all want to be Casey at the Bat - even when the mighty Casey strikes out - or fails to run the entire way from home to first base.