BATS, BALLS, AND BOYS

I tried out for Little League baseball when I was a boy. Our season started early in Fontana, California. There was no snow or bad weather postponing our games. Try-outs were in February at Juniper Park. I played a year in the "minors," but showing up at a park with a hundreds of other boys was daunting to me.

My dad and I played catch in our front yard every night through the winter, getting ready to try out for the majors. He threw grounders and fly-balls to me. There were vocal reprimands when I didn't use two hands to catch a ball. The reprimands were only harsh if I didn't hustle.

It was a crisp morning on try-out day. Most of the boys warmed up in their jackets and didn't sit on the dewy grass. When the sun rose the temperature jumped twenty degrees and dried the field. Coaches from every major league team lined the bleachers. Each boy had a number, and a chance to impress the coaches enough to be drafted onto their team.

Apparently I did all right, because the next day my Dad got off the phone and told me I was drafted by the Red Sox. Practices started the next day. Before the season started, I became the starting right fielder.

It was a good season. We took second place, earning a spot at the City Championship. During regular season play, we lost to the first place Cubs both times we faced them. We played the Cubs a third time for the title of City Champion. The local cable channel sent out a camera crew to film the game. There were multiple cameras taping the event. In an early inning, I hit a triple off the right field fence, driving in the run that would put us ahead, and allow us to win the game. One foot higher and it would have been my first home-run.

It's been fun over the years to relive that hit through the VCR copy we made when it played on TV. My Dad loves to play that part of the video. Then he smirks when he shows the next play. I was leading off of third base when the batter hit a line drive to first base that caught me running home. I got picked off trying to get back to third. All the glory followed by so much shame. The camera followed me back to the dugout catching the coach yelling at the top of my red helmet as I retrieved my glove.

Baseball taught me a lot about life. I learned that glory and shame often mix together before you can even catch your breath.

Breakfast Jacks

I work in an unfinished basement. It's usually fairly quiet there, except for when the fireplace or furnace kicks on.

It wasn't so quiet when my nine-year-old son started running a pencil over one of the heater vents upstairs. The sound startled me at first and my eyes looked up at the vent. Then the sound sent me back in time to when I was his age.

I look around the cab of the brown 1975 Dodge Ram Truck. My leg rests against the CB mounted under the dash. The metal banging noise is the long CB antennae striking against the roof of the drive-thru. We're eating breakfast at the Jack-In-The-Box restaurant. We are in my my hometown of Fontana, California. My dad slows down and tries to aim to the right stopping the noise. He leans over and pays for our breakfast jacks and orange juice at the same instant the sun peaks up over the horizon shining directly into our eyes. I squint and tilt my hat to create some shade as he hands me a cardboard drink holder and a bag of food. I set the drinks on my baseball pants as my dad leans left to put his wallet back in his jeans pocket. His seatbelt clicks as we move forward to the main street of Fontana California. It's Saturday and I have the fuel to play two baseball games. As we pull out the antennae hits the restaurant again and I look up to see an unfinished basement ceiling.

My son calls through the vent to me. "Dad, do you want some breakfast?"

"I'll be right up son."

I miss breakfast jacks. I miss my dad.