Baseball Memories

Baseball - This Post is for my son Bobby and  my nephew Josh who just became a father.  I’m certain Bobby's memories are as precious as mine.  I know Josh already anticipates the wonderful possibilities graciously set before him.

Over the last few days, I’ve been enjoying this year’s World Series (especially game six) and reliving some of my finer days.  While we were living in California, I would often come home to find my young son Bobby sitting on the front porch with two gloves and a ball.  At those moments, there was little need for discussion as we’d embark on a ritual that was sometimes interrupted by dinner and more than often by darkness.  While the beginning didn’t require conversation, we’d soon be talking about whatever crossed our minds.  The throwing and catching took place in the background of our consciousness and became as thoughtless and effortless as breathing.  On one particularly memorable

 day, I came home to find a pitcher's mound constructed on our lawn and an especially eager kid sitting on the porch.  He’d spent most of the day hauling a substantial amount of dirt in his wagon to create an amazingly accurate mound.  It only took a few days before I received an order to return our lawn to military standards.  My wife joked that the neighbors probably thought we’d buried a body.  I wish I had a gift for knowing life’s truly significant moments while they’re happening.  I’d trade a whole stack of birthday and Christmas pictures for a single clear photo of Bobby pitching from his mound.

     When Bobby was ten, I experienced one of the finest summers of my life.  At the conclusion of a remarkable baseball season, I witnessed him pitch 12 shutout innings (with only 3 walks) to help win their Little League district tournament.  The right fielder was the hero of the championship game, making a miraculous catch to end the contest, sealing a narrow victory, and transforming the anguished face of my young boy watching from the mound into utter jubilation.  We were fortunate to have this day.  Our family should have already been gone on a new assignment in Hawaii, but a parent of significant military rank pulled strings to delay our departure (but not long enough).  Military teams don’t usually do well in California Little League and the thought never crossed anyone’s mind that we’d actually win.  While everyone was happy my family temporarily stayed behind, I had to board a plane the day Bobby pitched in the sectional tournament.  He gave up a homerun in the top half of the last inning and they lost by a run.  Bobby was fine.  He told me that, at the time, nobody was overly concerned about the homerun.  At that moment, the entire team believed they’d come back and win.   I was destined to be down in the dumps regardless of the outcome.

Fighting Insurgents in Australia

Baseball in Hawaii was a year-round event and tremendously competitive. Bobby played for Pearl Harbor Navy Base in the winter and Hickam Air Force Base in the summer. The district he played in has won the Little League World Series in Williamsport PA several times and military base teams hadn’t ever “officially” won a single game in the post season. While we were in Hawaii, I was often deployed to far away places to fight our nation’s enemies (see picture above). While I missed quite a few games, I was fortunate to be one of several hundred spectators who witnessed a talented team of military kids score a decisive victory on the field over Halawa Hawaii. Sadly, Halawa’s coach filed a complaint after the game and the win was taken away from the kids. Military members rotate during the summer and the team only had nine players left at the start of the district tournament. The team’s coach had unknowingly brought up two younger kids from the Minor League, in violation of the rules, and played both of them for one inning.  Halawa went on to win the district tournament and the Hickam team learned that what’s legal isn’t always fair. Though disappointed, Bobby had the right perspective, “We know we won.”

While America’s military is an all-volunteer force, their families are draftees. Starting over is the norm for military “kids.” When we left Hawaii for Korea, I thought competitive baseball was something Bobby would have to leave behind. Fortunately, my vision of the future isn’t any better than my ability to easily recognize significant present events. I don’t believe many seventh graders ever get a chance to play high school baseball, but Bobby and another kid (the talented son of a General officer) were both given a unique opportunity. They did well, even beating Seoul American HS for the first time in the school’s history. Bobby struck out Seoul’s senior star two times and scored the game ending run on a suicide squeeze play, off a perfectly executed bunt by the other seventh grader.   Our two years in Korea passed quickly and we were given another hardship ;)  tour in Hawaii. 

 Life is full of decisions, and sometimes even choosing between two good things is hard.   During Bobby's freshman year, he started golfing with a friend.  He soon discovered that he had a natural talent for the game and even scored a hole-in-one his first month playing. I golfed in a Thursday evening league, at a lighted Par-3 golf course and convinced Bobby to come along with me.  That evening, we were paired with both the course pro and the Radford HS golf coach.  They took an immediate interest in Bobby and instructed me not to teach him anything, and not to let him even watch me if possible ;)  That year, his baseball and golf coaches allowed him to participate in both sports, but he reached a fork in the road his sophomore year.  When he asked me what he should do, I found myself repeating my Dad's words, "You'll have to row your own boat."  I could scan a  whole pile of press clippings documenting the wisdom of his "golf" decision, but this story is about baseball.

More so than any of the big games, my most treasured baseball memory took place in Anchorage Alaska.  We were on a military flight that broke down, stranding us for several days during the Alaskan summer. Once again, I don’t have any pictures.  Even if I did, they’d still be a few pixels short of capturing the clarity I’ve retained to this day.  I vividly remember playing catch in the terminal’s parking lot.  We’d been playing a long time and dinner was long past.  Midnight was approaching, but it wasn’t getting dark.   Neither of us wanted to be the first to suggest stopping and we played on in comfortable silence.