The Weekly Fare . . . April 10, 2003

Dad's Aren't Always Right

If you are a regular reader you might remember a column I wrote last Spring entitled "The Best and Worst of Baseball" in which I detailed son George's experiences while playing little league. I also recounted some of my own memorable moments in youth sports including the fact that due to the early witness of a friend's untimely encounter with a baseball to his eye, I pretty much gave up the sport before I ever took the first swing.

"Not my game," I advised mom when she came to pick me up that night.

Recently, son George implied that he might be thinking the same thing. This, in spite of the fact that three weeks earlier he had signed up to play for the same team he had last year. (As well the fact that the old man had already stroked the $44.00 check for uniform and league dues.)

"Son? You had a great year last year and you've already signed up. You don't HAVE to play anything, but I sure would like to know why you've changed your mind?" George hesitated a moment and then looked down at his feet, which generally indicates that what you are about to hear is approximately one-third of the actual story.

"Well Dad, baseball is so slow . . . I mean half the time you're "playing" you're not doing anything at all. To be honest Dad, it's pretty boring." I couldn't really argue the point. George expends enough energy on an average Saturday to light up Wrigley Field. Standing stoically out there in the outfield or sitting patiently while waiting to bat doesn't exactly come naturally. As a youth, even Willie Mays must have had his moments.

But there had to be more.

"What else has changed your mind son?" He waffled heavily, now swaying from side to side while studying the floor which meant we were now down to hearing about one-fifth of the truth.

"Nothing Dad . . . I just don't want to play . . ."

"George, three weeks ago you were set on playing - even excited about it. And now you tell me you don't want to play because the game's too slow? It's not like you didn't know how it's played?" George paused. He finally looked up. "Good," I thought, "here comes the rest of the story."

"You know, Dad, baseball can be kind of dangerous . . ."

He had read last year's column. I groaned inside. George is probably meant to be a hall of fame pitcher in the big leagues and I've ruined his chances by writing about my own youthful fears. That one errant pitch was traveling across the years and it now had one more victim in its sights.

"George, ALL sports are dangerous to some degree. You can get hurt playing ANYTHING." I paused trying to think of some way I could get him to reconsider. "Your sisters are playing T-ball and softball this year . . . Do you want to spend the whole Spring watching them play?"

He thought quietly for a moment.

"Well, I was thinking, er . . . I might take up, err . . . I was thinking about playing Lacrosse . . ."

"LACROSSE!?" I was flabbergasted. "George, if baseball can be occasionally dangerous, lacrosse is hazardous by design! It's not so much a sport as it is a medieval battlefield re-enactment. Players check and cross-check one another while slapping each other silly with a metal stick that has a sharp edged basket on one end. The ball they use is made of high-density rubber and is five times heavier than a baseball. Good players can whip that thing in excess of 90 miles an hour . . . Lacrosse? Why not just go out and play on I-581??" (Dad's can over do it sometimes.)

"Gee, Dad, it's not that bad . . . at least they give you pads to protect yourself . . ."

"George, have you ever heard of going over Niagara Falls in a barrel?"

He looked at me blankly. I'd grilled him enough. I advised him that he could play lacrosse if he really had it in his heart to do so. But I let him know I felt strongly he should probably give baseball one more year.

"Think about it." I said. "It might just turn out to be your sport."

Three days later George had made his call. "Dad, I've decided to play lacrosse - the season just started and Mom has found a team to sign me up on. I'm going to give it a try." I gave him the pouty disappointed Dad look. You know the one. It made you feel terrible, but somehow you always knew that he felt guilty for giving it to you as well. The next night I drove him to practice.

We arrived early so George could meet his coaches and get his new gear all worked out. The head coach welcomed him with just the right amount of friendly instruction and then showed us where to find the helmet, shoulder pads and gloves that enable players to whack the heck out of each other with relatively few injuries. As we stood off to the side strapping on the brand-new gear, two more boys walked up and began to do the same.

I noticed that one of them looked as though he'd been in a fight. He had a swollen scrape under one eye complete with a bloody patch that surrounded his pupil. I couldn't imagine how it had happened with a helmet and face-mask on, but here he was playing, so I knew it must have occurred on the field. I couldn't resist the opportunity to show George that ol' Dad knew what he was talking about.

"Say young man, that's some eye you've got there . . . what happened?" George looked up and over at him, noticing for the first time the gruesome and bloodshot eye. The boy didn't seem to realize that I was speaking to him, but his friend had.

"Who? Him?" he said, looking at his teammate. "Oh . . . He got hit by a baseball."

The words hung in the air like smoke, and the last one, "baseball," seemed to have a lingering quality all it's own. I swear time stopped on that little green field and I could hear the singing of the birds somehow clearer than before. And so could George. His head slowly turned until his gaze met mine revealing a smile that from ear to ear said, "Ah ha! . . .Maybe Dad's aren't ALWAYS right!"

He didn't say a word but just nodded his head a couple of times with that broad knowing smile that also seemed to say, "I'm not just a child anymore . . . Trust me."

I'd like to think that, slowly anyway, I'm learning how.