Driving home from my essential job this week, I passed a father hitting fly balls with a baseball bat to his son in a grade school field. It brought back memories.
Many years ago, I played men’s league baseball, before our kids were born, and for a number of years afterwards when they were very young. One of the other members of our team, the third baseman, would bring up his enthusiasm about having a kid so you could hit fly balls to and watch chase them over a green open field. I shared that desire.
Life ensued, and my wife and I had three kids, one of them a son, and I did hit and throw them pop flies when they were younger, but not for long. None of them stayed with the sport. Our son lasted until 8th grade, but coaches had long ago taken over for dad when it came to playing catch and throwing batting practice.
My men’s league buddy raised with me the feeling of the full-body joy of sprinting after a baseball in open space, the sphere orbiting above you as you drew a bead on it, trying to circle underneath to place your feet and feel it’s smack into the web of your leather glove. There is nothing quite like that. Hitting a baseball square so that you feel no vibration from the wood is a similar nostalgic feeling from days gone by of playing the sport.
In our virus-laden cautionary timeframe, watching that father and son got me thinking: “Why not do some social distancing while playing catch and/or hitting fly balls to a friend?” Great idea.
I’ve been preparing to play men’s over-55 baseball this summer anyway, so this fit right in. The team I sought to join had disbanded and the two guys I knew on the team were still seeking to finding a roster spot elsewhere, so nothing has happened on that front yet.
As I’d mentally prepped to play, I’d sought out several other friends who might also be interested. I called him this past Friday for some social distancing catch.
Sadly, it being Wisconsin, Friday night fish fries can take over, and he and his wife were heading over to their son’s house to indulge. We hope to set a future date soon though.
I thought through my list of contacts of who else might be interested in feeling the whack of ball in leather, breathing the crisp spring 48-degree air, extra clear these past few weeks as car driving, airplane traffic and industrial emissions have plummeted. Several names surfaced, but none necessarily convenient for me to pop over for a quick visit, slide on the glove and talk some BS long distance while we loosened our arms.
I will do this. It’s the perfect form of hanging out for the virus age. Perhaps playing catch and hitting fly balls to friends will be a new way to have conversations as we talk loudly to each other over longer distances. Who knows?
I see high school kids throwing footballs 40 yards from each other. Soccer players are practicing launching long kicks at goalies from way out. A father hits fly balls to his son. There’s an unbridled sense of release I get watching these scenes as I pass by in my automobile. My glove and ball wait at home.
Many years ago, I played men’s league baseball, before our kids were born, and for a number of years afterwards when they were very young. One of the other members of our team, the third baseman, would bring up his enthusiasm about having a kid so you could hit fly balls to and watch chase them over a green open field. I shared that desire.
Life ensued, and my wife and I had three kids, one of them a son, and I did hit and throw them pop flies when they were younger, but not for long. None of them stayed with the sport. Our son lasted until 8th grade, but coaches had long ago taken over for dad when it came to playing catch and throwing batting practice.
My men’s league buddy raised with me the feeling of the full-body joy of sprinting after a baseball in open space, the sphere orbiting above you as you drew a bead on it, trying to circle underneath to place your feet and feel it’s smack into the web of your leather glove. There is nothing quite like that. Hitting a baseball square so that you feel no vibration from the wood is a similar nostalgic feeling from days gone by of playing the sport.
In our virus-laden cautionary timeframe, watching that father and son got me thinking: “Why not do some social distancing while playing catch and/or hitting fly balls to a friend?” Great idea.
I’ve been preparing to play men’s over-55 baseball this summer anyway, so this fit right in. The team I sought to join had disbanded and the two guys I knew on the team were still seeking to finding a roster spot elsewhere, so nothing has happened on that front yet.
As I’d mentally prepped to play, I’d sought out several other friends who might also be interested. I called him this past Friday for some social distancing catch.
Sadly, it being Wisconsin, Friday night fish fries can take over, and he and his wife were heading over to their son’s house to indulge. We hope to set a future date soon though.
I thought through my list of contacts of who else might be interested in feeling the whack of ball in leather, breathing the crisp spring 48-degree air, extra clear these past few weeks as car driving, airplane traffic and industrial emissions have plummeted. Several names surfaced, but none necessarily convenient for me to pop over for a quick visit, slide on the glove and talk some BS long distance while we loosened our arms.
I will do this. It’s the perfect form of hanging out for the virus age. Perhaps playing catch and hitting fly balls to friends will be a new way to have conversations as we talk loudly to each other over longer distances. Who knows?
I see high school kids throwing footballs 40 yards from each other. Soccer players are practicing launching long kicks at goalies from way out. A father hits fly balls to his son. There’s an unbridled sense of release I get watching these scenes as I pass by in my automobile. My glove and ball wait at home.