Play ball

Springtime has well and truly arrived, bringing with it numerous memories. There’s the aroma of new-mown grass, the sweaty palms and the heart-in-your-throat sensation as you step up to the plate, the stinging disappointment of being cut off at first, the dejected walk back to the dugout.

But enough about my high school dating experiences. Spring also marks the start of baseball season.

Baseball is a thoroughly American sport, although one can see similarities with the game of cricket. At least the average person can understand baseball. I have an Englishman friend who tried to explain cricket to me, an exercise in futility that wasted an hour of both our lives. Any game that can go on for days, involve breaks for tea and can still end in a tie isn’t for me.

When our two sons were young, I tried to pass on the tradition of playing baseball by getting them involved with 4-H softball. This led to some interesting insights regarding natural abilities.

For instance, teaching the older boy to play catch should have given me a clue as to his athletic aptitudes. He seemed to have been blessed with very few such abilities and had to work hard just to master the simple act of catching a gently thrown softball.

Whenever the ball came his way, he became a blur of flailing limbs as the ball plopped onto the ground, untouched. I recalled how someone once advised me to toss the ball directly at the fielder’s face, which he or she would instinctively protect.

So, I tossed a soft underhanded pitch directly at the lad’s face. Arms and legs flailed; the ball flew, unimpeded, until it bounced off the child’s beak.

A howl of pain filled the air and my wife, who had been watching, ran to the boy’s side. As she led him to the house, she delivered some choice words about my fitness as a father, but no one could have made me feel worse about it than I did. I still feel awful about that episode.

Despite this and other setbacks, our eldest son gamely played softball with his 4-H club. His lack of athletic abilities usually landed him in right field, which suited him just fine. As the game progressed in the far distance, he contented himself with observing the bugs that were in the grass. Only when the occasional ball rolled out his way was he startled out of his reverie.

He eventually quit softball and began to focus his energies on all things electronic. He quickly mastered the art of taking computers apart, putting them back together and making them sing and dance. I like to think the time he spent observing bugs in right field gave him some valuable insights regarding computer bugs. Plus, he now knows the importance of throwing the ball to home base when there’s a runner on third.

Our younger son was so much of a contrast to his brother that it made us wonder if they were even related.

The younger boy wanted to start playing 4-H softball at the same time as his brother, but was obviously much too young. At one particular softball practice, Larry, the team’s coach, decided to humor the little guy by letting him take a turn at bat. A mistake.

Larry lobbed a softball across the plate. Our youngest son connected solidly, rocketing the ball directly back at Larry. The ball connected solidly with a very sensitive area on Larry, who grunted, bent over and had to walk around for a while.

This was a harbinger of things to come. Our youngest son seemed to possess an easy, natural prowess for all things athletic. Softball eventually became too tame for him, so he joined our local American Legion baseball team.

He often pestered me into playing catch with him on summer evenings. His goal was to become a pitcher, and he spent many hours honing his fastball.

This meant I had to catch said fastballs, which came at my face at speeds normally associated with artillery projectiles. The ball would boom into my old softball glove with the force of a sledgehammer, eliciting no small amount of pain. The expense of a catcher’s mitt suddenly didn’t seem quite so outrageous.

That boy grew up and is now an executive in the construction industry. He has to deal with a lot of different people from a lot of different backgrounds. I like to think the time he spent playing baseball helped him become a better team player.

Plus, he now knows the importance of wearing a cup — even if there’s just a little pipsqueak holding the bat.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at [email protected].