Pass It On

There are many things that are passed on from generation to generation. There are bad things, like abuse. There are annoying things, like male-pattern baldness or the shape of your nose or ears. And, there are good things, like an old pocket watch, Grandma’s wedding ring, the Du Pont family fortune, and baseball.

More specifically, the love of baseball.

Baseball is a game that must be passed on from father to son. Kids at recess won’t play baseball. There is too much equipment involved, not to mention, you would need 17 of your best buddies to properly fill the lineups for both teams. Everyone would need a mitt, unless they all trade off between innings, in which case, you could get by with eight—the right fielder doesn’t need a glove in elementary school. It just gets in the way. It’s easier picking dandelions with both hands.

We no longer live in a Sandlot world. Nope -- kids don’t usually pick up a love of baseball in the schoolyard at recess. Another reason for this is the game is filled with failure. It’s too hard. Can you think of a professional quarterback that only completed 30 percent of his passes in his career? Or a basketball player who only made 30 percent of his shots? Even Greg Ostertag shot 48 percent for his career. Can you imagine if a baseball player hit .480 even for one fluke season, let alone over an entire career? It is a very difficult game to play. The very best players at the highest level are only going to hit safely three times in every ten at bats. It can be frustrating, especially for kids, which is probably why they invented the wiffle ball.

The game is most often first learned in the backyard. Dad starts off by purchasing your first mitt. He also buys a ball – probably not a real ball, but something a little softer. He takes you out back after the sun has gone down, but before it’s too dark, and tosses you the ball. His glove seems enormous compared to yours as you toss it back. When he returns from retrieving your errant throw, he flips it back to you, but now he’s aiming for your glove. It’s pretty hard to make it into a little boy’s mitt when he flinches at the ball every time it comes his way, but that doesn’t stop Dad from trying. After all, you have never seen anyone as excited about anything as a boy catching his first few balls. For that matter, Dad can’t help but get a little excited himself.

Next thing you know, you’ve been signed-up for t-ball. Dad sets up a baseball tee in the backyard and now you practice swinging. If you are the first child, maybe it’s not the highest quality sports equipment, and after a dozen or so swings that miss well below the ball ends up breaking the tee, Dad realizes maybe next time he’ll buy a stronger one.

Little by little, you start getting better. Dad takes you to games and you start becoming familiar with the game. Familiar enough that something doesn’t make sense. If that player was all the way to second base by the time they caught the ball, why was he out? Your Dad explains the fly ball rule, and you go on absorbing the game from him, someone who loves baseball, and wants you to love it too.

When I was eight and nine years old my Dad would crouch down in the backyard under the walnut tree and I would pitch to him. He bought a left-handed catchers mitt for just such occasions. When I was ten and eleven years old he would still sit under the walnut tree, but he found that it was easier to sit on a bucket. He also figured out that it would be easier if he had a few spare balls at his side so he didn’t need to chase after every wild pitch. By the time I was twelve or so, it hurt his hand when I pitched, so he bought a “pitch back.” The problem was, you never quite new where it was going to pitch it back to. And, by that time, I had grown to love the game as much as he did. You can’t love it more than another person, only just as much. You either love the game, or you don’t. I do. So does Dad.

So guys, start early with your kids. If you love the game, it’s up to you to pass that on to your posterity. You owe it to them. I mean, after all, they inherited your hairy back, so you’ve got to give them something to make up for it.