Gearing up for baseball
I've braced myself: Baseball is here. That feel of grit under my bare feet as I cross the kitchen floor when I come down for my first cup of coffee. The fine layer of red dust covering my dress shoes as I ready for work. Tripping over mud-caked cleats left by the back door.
None of that fazes me.
It's the gear!
Each of my sons has a ball bag filled with a glove, batting helmet, batting gloves and a bat--maybe two. We had to get new bats this year--proper weight and length, aluminum and expensive.
And did I mention three new sets of cleats?
Back in the day, I slid my brother's hand-me-down Rawlings Mickey Mantle glove over the handle of a wood bat, and walked to practice in last year's cleats. To be honest, as a player, I wasn't worth much more than that investment.
It wasn't until I was much older that I lost my fear of the ball. Nor could I hit the broad side of a barn door--with the bat and standing next to it. So it was rare that I experienced the vibration of the ball leaving the bat with the sound of a pop. If at all it was more like a low thump.
My only true value, however, was that no kid pitcher ever threw a strike on me. Bending my knees and hunching over the plate I could narrow my strike zone razor thin. Four balls were almost a given, and I was a guaranteed base.
Most of the time I was probably thrown out trying to steal second or third. Still, there is a faded memory or two of crossing the plate to bring in a run for the team.
Granted, my sons all share my vertical limit and none are likely to be pro ball players. But they are a far sight better than I was.
Even my youngest who is in Texas League hasn't far to go to surpass his dad's career. And watching all of them play is a kick. In fact, the red dust on my dress shoes is from occasional visits straight from the office to the practice field to help out--when I can.
I still have that old Mickey Mantle glove, and sometimes I get it out when I play catch with the boys. And while the padding doesn't offer much cushion anymore--particularly when my middle son fires one in--the leather still snaps when the ball hits the pocket.
Okay, so a new glove for the youngest was 25 bucks, and new bats were each around $54.
A cool afternoon under blue skies playing catch on the front lawn with my sons--priceless.
Copyright 2008 by David Falloure
