Reminiscing about baseball yesterday led me to write some more on it today. The title is a joke. Remember the movie Sandlot? The boys played there all day long. Yes, I remember doing the same thing with my friends and brother years and years ago.

The first ball field I remember playing on was at Optimist Park. I vaguely have recollections of T-Ball. I don’t remember our team names, frankly I don’t remember my teammates. I just remember playing ball at this tiny little park near my high school’s athletic field. This high school athletic field and the parking lot outside of it was my home for thousands of hours during the endless marching band seasons, but I did not know that when I was playing baseball as a tiny tot. I still drive by Optimist Park on occasion. Baseball is no longer played there, but the memories of playing ball on that grass always make me smile.

When I hit little league age I played ball as often as I could. My dad bought me a pitch back and I would throw the baseball for hours in the garage or just outside the garage. The pitch back was a spring loaded net with a target on it. The ball would come right back to me once it hit the pitch back. My reaction times for fielding got faster thanks to this machine. This garage was special to me as I helped my dad build it. I learned a lot of carpentry skills in that garage, as well as how to throw a slider and what is now known as a cutter.

When my parents were working my brother and I were left to our own devices. Generation X kids aged 7 and 9 on their own. Once our chores of the day were accomplished we either rode our bikes somewhere, like Wallingford Park, or stayed home. Guess what we did? We played ball. It didn’t matter how many players there were. How many of our neighborhood friends met us at our backyard or the park. We played ball. For hours. No one really kept score. We just played. The title of this blog is in reverence to those times. We literally would play dozens of innings only stopping to drink water (Out of a garden hose.) It was magical. It was innocent. This is what the game of baseball means to me.

When my dad arrived home from work he would take us to St. Andrew’s Catholic Church to little league practice after supper. We practiced hard even then. If we decided to take some time off of the game, due to weather, or just not feeling like hauling everything out to the park, we would watch the afternoon Cubs game on WGN. Our early cable of 13 channels came with WGN. My little league number was the same as Dave Kingman’s “10.” Yet our little league team was the Cardinals, and Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, and Stan Musial were iconic names we always heard about at practice. I really liked pitching. Hitting was a challenge for me, but my brother could hit for days.

Baseball ended for us during our freshmen year in high school. I hurt my elbow in Babe Ruth league while pitching. My brother just stopped playing as his interests turned to boats and working. I partially tore my ulnar collateral ligament in a game. This was before Tommy John surgery was a proven surgery, so my baseball career ended. It healed over time, but throwing a baseball was difficult for a long time. I still have dreams of walking to the mound in a MLB game to throw an inning of relief. A childhood dream really never leaves as the man grows old.

When my children were old enough to play ball, I attended games as I was able. When I had them for my turn in the parenting schedule we drove down to the park regularly with their step brothers and played some ball. I could throw about 100 pitches before the elbow and shoulder would ache. The boys loved hitting the ball and fielding. That lasted until their youngest step brother passed away at the age of ten from Budd Chiari. My boys continued to play town ball. My oldest step son played a summer of junior high ball. We never pursued club baseball activities. To be honest we don’t really condone club baseball.

Club baseball, in our opinion, turns a fun game into a winning is business game. My nephew did this for a while, and after watching the culture of club baseball for a season, I knew it was more about getting the stars noticed then teaching the game the right way to all of the kids. My nephew did not enjoy his experience, like my kids enjoyed theirs. My children didn’t mind playing for lackluster teams. They had fun playing! I like seeing kids having fun regardless of the score trying their best. I loved even more seeing a child with exceptional physical needs playing ball on my son’s team. I loved hearing the team cheer him on for drawing a walk or hitting the ball three feet and running hard to first. That’s what this game is all about: teamwork, sportsmanship, friendship and camaraderie. When I see the adult professionals having that kind of fun it makes for an entertaining product to watch on television. That’s what continues to bring me back to the game.

I wish every child had the opportunity to play sandlot ball like I did, with or without an adult. Video games and overzealous safety issues keep kids locked indoors. Poor sportsmanship also reigns supreme at many contests involving children. Why do parents all think their child needs to be the winner all of the time? I dissent with this. Children learn as much if not more from losing a game as they do winning. In fact, losing is not that big of a deal when you’re ten. Tomorrow comes and your record is back to 0-0. Going back to the ball park the next day and getting dirty throwing and batting the ball again is all that matters. The pursuit of excellence in baseball requires one to overcome obstacles far greater than winning a game. It requires thought, timing, hard work, great hand to eye coordination, and a whole lot of luck!

I can’t wait for the season to start. It’s a spiritual marker of sorts for me. The sound of the ball hitting a glove or bat. The sound of dirt being scraped by the feet of the players. The umpire yelling, “Play Ball,” and all of the children watching the game and dreaming… can I play here some day???