Category: boys will be boys

“PLAY BALL!”

Pitcher, outfielder,Dad/coach/umpire, first baseman

It wasn’t a call that reverberated over the fences and throughout the neighborhood. No, it was more of a professorial urging by the umpire, “play ball”, and we did.

Today was the official opening of the new ball field, a garden like area nestled among stately homes, comfortably laid out in the family’s new backyard, with floral baselines, an ornamental outfield tree and even a mini brick wall, Wrigleyesque. For lack of a formal name, I’ll refer to it as Claybourne Field, or “the field” for short.

‘The Field’

Such a difference from the ‘old field’, a simple front yard lawn on a busy avenue, a family lab of sorts, where a father and his two young sons bonded forever thru America’s pastime, baseball. A place where the boys learned to hit, run and throw and their dad/coach/umpire honed his parenting skills. *

Every new ballpark has some semblance of a pregame ceremony. Today was no different and I was truly honored to throw out the first pitch, three exactly, one to each boy and their dad. My own solo practice sessions leading up to the big day rewarded me with three perfect pitches, fastballs right down the middle.

Following the pregame festivities, it was time to start the first game on ‘the field’’. I played the pitcher position for both teams, guaranteeing me to be both the winning and losing pitcher, probably a first in baseball annals.

For two innings, I kept the offenses guessing with my repertoire of ‘stuff’: fastball, curve, knuckler, change up and even a hit batsman to keep the hitters honest and away from the plate. Oh, they hit me, alright, and even scored a few runs but the game was low scoring until the third and final inning when the floodgates opened.

The hitters, kids and dad, finally figured me out and sprayed hits all over the field. The tall, lanky first baseman sent shots whizzing by my ear. The small, spunky outfielder swung for the fences on every pitch, pointing where the ball was going each time. Such swagger! Such chutzpah, even. **

Not to be outdone, the dad/coach/umpire peppered the outfield wall and trees, often sending the spheroid out of sight with his brute strength, building a big lead. Not even my high leg kick delivery slowed the onslaught.

The third and final inning saw a valiant comeback effort by the boys stopped in its tracks when the dad snagged a wicked line drive for the final out and a 16-10 winning score.

Thanks for inviting me to join your game and be a young man, again, boys. It was fun to be part of your story and write about it. The autographed ball has a special place on my shelf and in my heart.

This is the third story chronicling my former neighbor and two sons and their love of baseball. See the links below for the first two.

Steve (062623)

* https://srbottch.com/2023/03/18/they-closed-the-old-ballpark-today/

** https://srbottch.com/2021/10/02/the-kid-he-called-it/

Find my stories at ‘srbottch.com’)

‘Fire In The Hole”: Male Bonding?

Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! Bang! Bang! Ratatat…and on and on for the ‘longest brief moment’. And loud! Oh, was it loud!

The old man next door came out of his house as the police arrived. At the same time, my sister burst into my bedroom like a SWAT officer looking for the perps.

She found them, two perps, 16 and 21, my future brother-in-law, pending her inquisition, and me, quietly having a nervous laugh at the ruckus we caused. A few long strips of firecrackers tossed out the bedroom window into the neighbor’s yard on a hot summer night, and a sister’s wrath, can do that, make you nervous, and laugh.

“Sounded like gunfire”, the old man told the officers.

In 1963 shootings were extremely rare. No, this was just a case of old-fashion ‘male bonding*’, not to be confused with ‘boys will be boys’.

“Am I wrong”, as Seinfeld’s George Costanza would often ask

* male bonding or male friendship is the formation of close personal relationships, and patterns of friendship or cooperation between males. (Wikipedia)

Generally, male bonding occurs when there’s some common goal to be achieved by struggling together: surviving a challenge, winning a game, meeting a target, something that brings two or more men together in achieving and strengthening a relationship. Surviving the verbal blows of an enraged sister might be a good example.

Then, there’s the action of professional golfer, Tiger Woods, who made news this week when cameras caught him passing a female hygiene product to a fellow competitor whom he had just out driven, suggesting that his foe hit like a girl, weak. They were bonding, according to the apologetic Tiger.

Was it innocent? Probably. Funny? Not really, at least not for public consumption. ‘Male bonding’? No, it was crass, locker room stuff. Even the firecracker affair rose to a higher level.

As to that episode, I think the ‘perps’ learned a lesson in growing up. My future BIL and I did bond and had a good summer. My sister married him and he’s done well by her for 58 years.

What’s your take on Tiger’s behavior, and your favorite memory of bonding? Surely, you have one. All stories are welcome.

Steve (021923)

To my. sister & brother-in-law. you’ve ‘bonded’ well