The Baseball Field
This field is full of memories. Before we all had cellphones, and before anyone had ever heard of air tags or hash tags or instagram, we were playing on this baseball field, where I’m watching my son play now. Back then, it was a softball field. My sister and I were both on a team called “the Flyers,” and we wore gray jerseys and Toronto Blue Jays hats. My dad was our coach, and we spent untold number of hours on this field with him. Baseball was his first language, and even at a young age, I think we knew it mattered that we learn to speak it too. He had his favorite line ready for us before each at-bat, and with his hand rested on our helmets, he’d send us to the plate with the reminder to “be loose, see ‘em good, hit ‘em in the middle.” I never once stopped to think about what those words actually meant, but I recognized them as more of a commission than an instruction.
Just to paint an accurate picture, this was plain old softball without any of the modern upgrades. There was no fast pitch back then, and none of us wore face protectors in the field. Our bats were often shared, and our gloves were usually hand-me-downs. Our parents never paid for hitting lessons or pitching clinics. We developed our skills playing neighborhood sandlot games, pepper in the front yard, or Wall Ball until the sun went down. We measured and displayed our success by the number of bandaids on our helmets - and we’d add another every time we hit a home run.
One of the most vivid softball memories was at a tournament one Saturday. We were losing, and my dad was pulling out all the stops. I was about to bat when he pulled me aside and promised me that if I hit a home run, he would - and I’m about to seriously date myself here - buy me any beanie baby I wanted. I had my sights set on being the greatest beanie baby collector in the southeast (well, at least in my elementary school class), so now, he was speaking my language. He seemed to be looking past the fact that I probably had a total of 3 bandaids on the helmet that I shared with my sister, who had hit approximately 3 home runs. Still, my dad knew the power of incentive. One more “Be loose, see ‘em good, hit ‘em in the middle,” and he sent me to go hit. But in all honesty, the phrase that was running through my head when the pitcher tossed the ball was “any beanie baby you want,” and I crushed it. I mean, I really, really crushed it. I hit the game-winning, and just as importantly, beanie-baby-earning, home run. When I crossed home plate I kept running until I reached my dad and I jumped into his arms, knocking his clipboard out of his hands. “I decided which one I wanted!” I yelled, and he just kept shouting “you did it! you hit a home run!” Sometimes the language barrier got in the way, but it didn’t matter; we shared the joy of the moment just the same.
Those years were everything people are remembering when they refer to “the good ole days.” They were such good days. Because of them, I got to see my dad in his home country, famous for it’s red dirt and left turns. It was the years spent here that let me learn the culture and taste the food. And each time I hear “take me out to the ballgame” being played during any 7th inning stretch, I feel the need to put my hand over my heart. I do a fly-by of all of these memories, and feel something between reverence and longing for years that ended without any real warning.
But they didn’t end, not exactly. Now, from the stands, I am getting to relive the most sacred parts of it. My son is on the field, and - the gift of this is not lost on me - my dad is coaching him. He’s about 25 years older, and so am I. He’s traded his blue jays hat in for a Red Sox hat, but he still holds the clip board the same way. And as always, he looks right at home on the field.
And each time my dad’s hand rest on my son’s helmet, I can guess what he’s saying. “Be loose, see ‘em good, hit ‘em in the middle.“ And because I’ve learned to translate, I know he’s not just sending him out with instructions of what to do at the plate. He’s telling him, in his first language, just how much he loves him.
