Baseball begins this weekend for my son and me, his coach. This is his last year in the league, and he made his goals clear.

Me: What are you thinking about for the upcoming season?

Son: We have to win a championship.

Me: Well, every team wants to win, and only one will. I mean I want to and everything, but to say we have to…

Son: No. If we don’t win, it’s a fail. It’s our final year, and we haven’t won yet. So, it has to be this year.

So baseball wasn’t about the time we spent together. It wasn’t about him getting better as a player. It wasn’t about him getting exercise. It wasn’t about him getting to be part of a team.

I’ll be honest. The answer stung a little bit. My son is obsessed with winning, and nothing else matters. What kind of child are my wife and I raising?

But then I thought about it.

Was I that competitive?

Ummm, well, yeah. I am or at least I was that competitive. (Maybe I still am in some ways but that’s another story.) When I was in Little League, all I wanted was to play and win the championship.

When I was playing ball, I was on one championship team. I was 10 years old, and I didn’t get to play much that year. The coach played his son and his son’s friends more than the rest of us.

I played outfield primarily, and the ball only got out there a few times a game. Once during practice, I had a rock catch with a friend of mine, a fellow outfielder. No one noticed.

Despite my relative inactivity, I still have a few memories of that team. We were the Giants, and we wore purple jerseys. The friend I had a catch with was named Mike. We rarely talked after the season ended.

When I was 12, my basketball team made it to the finals. We started the year poorly – losing our first few games. Then, there was a long strike involving the schools, and the league was halted.

When the league started up again after the strike, only seven of our 11 players returned. Those of us who returned got to play a lot. And we started winning and laughing.

I could give you a breakdown of the championship game – go all Charles Barkley, Kenny Smith and TNT on you – but I’ll spare you the details.

While I can’t remember the name of the team or the color of our shirts (I might have a picture somewhere), the memory of that team and how we bonded still makes me smile.

Sure, I want my son and his teammates to be competitive and experience a championship. Having such an experience is special. So, along with my fellow coaches, we’ll try to put the players in the best position to succeed.

However, it will be the same balancing act as past years, one between winning and helping the boys improve their skills.  When the only focus is winning, something is lost.

I hope my son can appreciate that as much fun as winning is, coming together as a team is even more special.

Maybe, this kind of thinking only happens with time, perspective and maturity. Either way, I hope my son and the rest of the team enjoy the season and, one day, will look back upon it fondly.

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

A version of this first appeared on Me, Myself and Kids. It first ran here in 2017 and has since been updated. “Competitive children” photo by Eduardo Balderas on Unsplash.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Those words from President Franklin Delano Roosevelt served as an encouraging rallying cry for Americans navigating the Great Depression. But to an 8-year-old who got pegged in the helmet by a “fastball” in his first at-bat of the new recreational baseball season, they mean nothing.

Sports bring out the best and worst in us, whether we’re fans watching our favorite team (go Knicks!) or participants on our church softball team. That’s a lot for parents to handle because much of our life seems to revolve around watching our children play sports, organized or otherwise, as soon as they can walk. For example, all three of my kids play on rec teams. This means two games a week for each child. Then add on one of two practices — again, for EACH CHILD. Then add that to all three kids’ other extracurricular activities. It is, to put it mildly, a busy life. For me.

This brings me back to FDR’s quote about fear. 

When I checked on my son, Jackson, after he got hit with that pitch, I could see his desire to play baseball had left him at that very moment. It was a brand-new experience for him. Two years ago he hit off a tee in games. Last year was coach pitch, so fathers lobbed slow pitches he could crush to the outfield. He had always been one of the best players on his teams up until that fateful at-bat. I loved watching him play and believed he could be a special player for many years. 

But after taking that less-than-fast one on the helmet, even though was OK physically, he was not OK emotionally. His not wanting to play for the rest of the game hit me in a way I was not expecting.

It got worse after the game. That’s when Jackson told me he didn’t want to play baseball anymore.

I was mad.

‘Fun’ comes first in ‘fundamentals’

Something felt like it was taken away from ME. I had spent time getting him ready, taking him to practice, doing pitching drills, and many other things to prepare him for another great season. The moment became about me, my time and my feelings rather than about my son and his state of mind.

Baseball soon became a struggle between the two of us. Two games later into the season, Jackson was still apprehensive about playing. I would spend an hour getting him dressed for games and practices. We’d argue the entire time about why he had — NEEDED — to go and couldn’t just not show. I was getting frustrated and so was he. I could see he was getting further and further from wanting to pick up a bat again.

Then, one day before practice, I was talking with another dad who coaches the team.  He didn’t blame Jackson for not wanting to play. He even admitted he would be scared to get back into the batter’s box after an experience like that too. While Jackson warmed up with his teammates in the outfield, the dad reminded me of a simple fact.

“They’re only 8,” he said. “This should be about learning the fundamentals of baseball but also having fun. If they aren’t having fun, then why are they doing it?”

That’s when I realized my duty as a father was not only to provide for my family. It was also my duty to listen to them. I wasn’t listening to Jackson about his genuine fear of getting hit by the ball, a fear anyone might have. It is no different than being afraid to get behind the wheel of a car after a traffic accident. Trauma affects everyone differently, and as parents, we must learn to recognize it in our children and address it.

With youth sports, we parents sometimes get caught up in the fantasy. We hear about all the benefits beyond physical health — friendship, teamwork, discipline, etc. — and expect results on Day One. Often it becomes about our kids living the athletic dreams we wanted to come true for ourselves. Maybe we even indulge in thoughts about the riches (or at least the college scholarships) it provides only a select few. We make it about ourselves and think our kids should tough it out. 

Youth sports parents: Listen, learn, enjoy

But these are just children. Some just want to hang with their friends, sing a few fun and clever rallying cries, and then get a hot dog and slushy from the snack stand after the game. Youth sports parents must remember to frequently ask their kids one very simple question, “Are you having fun?”

If you know they are having fun, it makes the long road trips, the late-night games, and the rain-soaked practices worth it. If your kid is not having fun, then you as a parent are definitely not having fun. So what’s the point?

As parents, we want our children to be active, but we must have the wisdom to step in when necessary be it youth sports or violin lessons. We should not let them become overscheduled. We need to be sure they are having fun while building healthy relationships and habits they will carry off the field.

As of this writing, Jackson is halfway through the season. He still isn’t swinging the bat much, but he is playing and his confidence appears to be returning. I make sure before every game to tell him the coaches and the other sports parents are there to ensure he has fun while prioritizing that he doesn’t get hurt. I remind him that getting hit is a part of the game of baseball, but it doesn’t happen very often. And I tell him after every game that I am proud of him getting back out there and facing his fear. 

When I see him out there making plays, catching a fly ball or two, I remind him of all he would have missed if had let his fear keep him from playing baseball. However, I let the coaches do their jobs and coach. Sometimes hearing things, especially instructions, from an authority figure who is not your parent, gets through to a child better.

So if this turns out to be his last season of baseball at the ripe old age of 8 going on 9, I am OK with that. If he’s not having fun playing a game, then why should he? He will have plenty of time to do “not fun” things when he is an adult. 

+ + +

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash.

A fellow stay-at-home dad/native of Cincinnati and I recently took our little girls into what we thought would be hostile territory to watch a Reds/Mets baseball game at New York’s Citi Field. It probably didn’t help our cause much with my wearing a Yankees cap.

However, everybody was very polite and nobody said anything.

At least not to our faces.

Given it was around naptime for my Little One when we got off the subway in Queens, I tried to stroller her into a nap. After 10 minutes, I succeeded. Since we could use the strollers in Citi Field, my friend and I decided to push her right inside.

I pulled my diaper bag out of the bottom of the stroller in advance of the gate and unzipped it so the security personnel could inspect the innards to ensure that I wasn’t toting in C4 with my Burt’s Bees Diaper Ointment. With half a glance at the bag, the security guy then asked me to take my baby (she’s really a toddler) out of the stroller, please.

A sleeping baby (um, toddler).

Wake the baby or make a break for it?

Now, as everybody knows, you are asking for a huge world of hurt if you rouse a sleeping baby — toddler — even for baseball. But what was I to do?

My friend was already inside and to turn around at the security checkpoint to hang out in the parking lot until she woke up 35 minutes later likely would have only brought suspicion down on my head. Which might have resulted in my not being allowed into the game at all. And then I would have come to Queens for no reason.

Trust me, if you ever go to Queens, you really ought to have a reason for doing it.

So I pulled her out. She immediately woke up. Satisfied that there wasn’t a grenade strapped to the ass of my kid, the guard waved us through.

This is going to be a disaster, I thought. She was groggy, blurry eyed and cranky. She immediately started with her patented “Go! Go!” that she uses when she doesn’t want to be someplace.

I had made a terrible mistake. And I hated that security guard.

We settled into our seats, which were excellent, by the way: three rows back from the left field wall where home run balls are a real concern when you’ve got a baby (ugh – toddler) on your lap. The seats, had they been crosstown at Yankee Stadium in The Bronx (if you go to The Bronx — brother, you REALLY better have a reason) would have gone for something like $350. Here, they cost only $19 on StubHub. Little One kept up with her “Go! Go!” but then they started to turn into “Yay! Yay!” and clapped her hands with everybody else once the game started.

She actually stayed in her seat and let me put on her hat (pink, Yankees – sorry) and she let me put on her sunglasses (pink), apply sunblock (chalky), and change her out of her pants and into her (pink) shorts when it got hot. My baby — TODDLER — even tracked the baseball that Cincinnati’s Joey Votto hit into the seats about 15 feet from us (in the ESPN SportsCenter highlight of Votto’s home run blast later that night, she appeared as the light pink blur that doesn’t move while everybody else around her stands up and leans left).

Life lessons learned

She also learned from dear ol’ dad that you never throw the baseball back. Never, ever toss it back on the field! No matter how many home fans around you are clamoring for you to do so. Why? Because:

1. You might hit and injure a player who isn’t expecting a baseball to come from behind him, and
2. This will very likely never happen to you ever again.

You keep the ball. No matter what. Always. The bozo kid who caught the ball in the next section over from us tossed it back, much to the delight of the 30,000 Mets fans on hand. What are parents teaching kids these days?

Little One, it turned out, was great. In fact, both babies — dammit, TODDLERS — were great. Much better than ever could have been hoped for. They even let us stay through the entire game (Reds won 7-4). Who could ask for more than that? A perfect game on a perfect day with the perfect effing offspring? Who could want more than that?

Well, if Joey Votto had smacked that ball about 14 or 15 feet farther to the left and about three rows up, that would’ve been all right, too.

About the author

Jason Duncan (holding Little One in the photo) is a full-time stay-at-home dad, writer, blogger, fly fisher and terrier owner.

Baby and baseball photo: © Katrina Brown / Adobe Stock.

Baseball season has arrived in New York! If you are looking for a way to enjoy a ball game with your kids, we have got your guide to family-friendly baseball in and around NYC right here. Editor’s Note: This article has been updated for 2024.

But before you go to a game …

Review the home team’s policy for bringing bags (such as diaper bags) and outside food and drink into the ballpark.

Family-friendly NYC baseball: Major Leagues

New York Mets —  We’ve written many times over the years about how the Mets and Citi Field in Queens, by far, are the most family-friendly Major League Baseball option in NYC.  They offer family/child ticket deals, giveaways and, after Sunday home games, a post-game “kids run the bases” event. They have an awesome fun zone to entertain kids, big and small, in the center field plaza. And don’t forget the perks like free tickets and gear if your child joins the Mr. and Mrs. Met’s Kids Club. In 2022, the Mets added a Sensory Nook, a specially designed quiet area to help those with autism, ADHD and dyslexia escape from the overstimulation that can occur at major sporting events.

New York Yankees — The perennial AL East contenders finally started offering something just for your little Bronx Bomber at Yankee Stadium in 2017. That’s when the team opened its Kids Clubhouse, a 2,850-square-foot area on the 300 level in right field. It has baseball-themed playground equipment on a soft artificial surface and shaded areas with interactive exhibits. Parents can play along or watch the kiddies from a dugout a few feet away. The area includes TV monitors so you don’t miss the game, family restrooms with changing tables and a private space for nursing mothers.

Family-friendly NYC area baseball: The Minors

Sure, it’s not the big leagues. For families, though, minor league baseball is much cheaper and often more fun. You and the kids can get closer to the action at these more intimate parks and the home teams tend to emphasize entertaining the fans more than just making a buck.

Brooklyn Cyclones — The Single A affiliate of the Mets offers the Puzzle Piece Funhouse, “a sensory safe space, designed specifically to accommodate children with Autism Spectrum Disorder, as well as their families,” according to their website. You must apply online to use this space. Check the promotion schedule for fireworks nights and the chance to run the bases after a game. Tickets tend to sell out quickly for this cool park that has views of both the Atlantic Ocean and neighboring Coney Island.

Somerset Patriots — Pinstripers of the future are showcased in Bridgewater Township, N.J., a bit over an hour from Manhattan by car or 75 to 90 minutes by train. After hosting an independent team for more than 20 years, the Patriots in 2012 became the Yankees’ Double-A affiliate. This beautiful retro-style park opened in 1999, featuring lawn seating for the squirmier set. There’s also a kids’ fun zone, frequent post-game fireworks shows and Sunday kids “run the bases” events. You can even order food from any seat using a mobile app and then pick it up at the concession to minimize missing game action. If you plan on hitting multiple games, consider having your child join the Sluggers Kids Club. For $25, they get tickets to Sunday home games, goodies and access to some cool kid events.

Independent, collegiate league baseball for the family

Independent and collegiate league baseball is another great baseball option. The level of play may be a step below the Minors, but your kids will have as much — if not more — fun. You may see some past or future big league starts. Best of all, it’s only a fraction of the cost.

Long Island Ducks — Just an hour east of Queens in Central Islip and only a short Uber ride from the nearest Long Island Railroad stop are the Ducks. This original member of the independent Atlantic League always competes for the title. Kids under age 3 are free but must sit on an adult’s lap. Children age 14 and under can join the Kids Club to receive discounts and special deals. Watch for special on-field events and promotions.

New Jersey Jackals — Part of the independent Frontier League, the Jackels moved to a “new” historic ballpark for 2023 – recently renovated Hinchliffe Stadium in Patterson, N.J. Hinchliffe originally opened in 1932 as one of the nation’s finest Negro Leagues ballparks and is now one of only two remaining in the country. Future baseball Hall of Famers Leroy “Satchel” Paige, Josh Gibson, James “Cool Papa” Bell and Paterson native Larry Doby all played at the stadium. The ballpark, only 35 minutes from Manhattan by car, is to feature a museum dedicated to the history of the Negro Leagues.

New York Boulders — Also part of the Frontier League, the (formerly Rockland) Boulders play in a beautiful ballpark in Pomona, N.Y., about 80 minutes by car north of Manhattan. In addition to a playground, there’s also a batting cage, a mini-golf course and mini-train ride. All have a clear view to the field so you don’t miss the on-field action. Plus, the players exit the field through the stands so stick around after the game for autographs and photos (see the photo at the top of this post).

Staten Island FerryHawks — New in 2022 is this independent Atlantic League team. They play in the recently renovated former home of the Single A Yankees affiliate. It’s a short walk from the Staten Island ferry. Children 3 years or younger are not required to have a ticket during game days. Kids can run the bases after Sunday home games.

Trenton Thunder — This former Yankees affiliate is now in the MLB Draft League, a summer collegiate league for top baseball prospects. Your child can join Boomer’s Kids Club, a paid membership deal that offers ticket and gear discounts and cool game-day/on-field opportunities. Look for promo days when kids eat free or can run the bases. The ballpark in Trenton is about 90 minutes from NYC, via car or N.J. Transit train.

Photos: Kevin McKeever

I have a hate/love relationship with holiday decorating. While I often hate the cold process of retrieving the garland, tinsel and all those other items from the bowels of our family’s basement, I usually love the warm finished product: a house ready for the holidays.

This year, however, my “basement dive” was brightened by an object I came across for the first time in many years. I found a plastic black top hat like the one worn by Frosty the Snowman. In that moment, a series of memories sped through my mind like a magician’s interconnected handkerchiefs.

The hat had been part of a “build a snowman” set given to our family by a friend when my two daughters were tweens. The set included black buttons for a face and rounded sticks for arms. My youngest, Lindsay, especially loved the idea of making snowmen in our yard. That gift led to many snow families appearing in our yard during the next several winters — all punctuated by Lindsay’s sheer joy as she would pose next to them for pictures.

“This hat belongs in the Hall of Fame,” I thought to myself. That’s my phrase for a special section of my basement containing various items from my children’s early childhood — e.g., princess shoes, art projects, and crayon diaries, among others.

As I made my way across the basement, I also thought about a prized possession from when I was a tween. I grew up a baseball fanatic, and at that age I played for a team called the Falls Greenhouse Yankees. Our family vacation that year was to a place I considered sacred: the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, N.Y.

I remember enjoying all the exhibits about my baseball heroes, but my most significant memory is when my usually frugal father agreed to splurge for a souvenir. My choice? A miniature baseball bat complete with the logos for a Louisville Slugger and the Baseball Hall of Fame. It’s even made of real wood. That souvenir has been prominently placed in every home I’ve lived in since childhood. I guess you could say the bat from an actual Hall of Fame is now part of my personal Hall of Fame.

Hard to predict what will become treasured heirlooms

What I’ve learned from the black hat and mini-bat is that you never know what objects from a child’s life will become magical, memory-laden family heirlooms years later. So I always encourage parents to hang on to some “special” family objects for a while, though many will not make the final cut for a variety of reasons.

The family objects that survive, however, often become like props from famous movies that thrill collectors with their ability to conjure up full-bodied memories of individual scenes. The scenes symbolized by family heirlooms are from the home movies we play in our minds when we remember the past. In the spirit of the If You Give a Mouse a Cookie books, you might say if you give a parent an heirloom, he or she can’t resist remembering all the warm associations it evokes.

Another reason to save a few of the objects from your children’s early years is to create more opportunities for intergenerational bonding in the distant future. As we know, we live in a high-tech, highly disposable culture that has moved many childhood experiences into the virtual realm. One result has been a decrease in outdoor, low-tech, hands-on childhood activities like playing baseball and building snowmen.

The black hat and mini-bat in my basement, however, have built a bridge between the childhoods of my daughters and me. Their snowmen melted several years ago, and my baseball games ended several decades ago. But the magical remnants are still here for us to savor together.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Summer is already starting to wind down, but the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., is open year round. Fall is a great time to visit as crowds are smaller, the weather cooler and the autumn scenery spectacular.

As a kid, I would spend hours on my bedroom floor organizing my baseball cards. It was quite the process.

My favorite players went into one folder. A second folder was for good players that weren’t necessarily my favorite. A third folder was for Hall of Famers. Players that didn’t make the cut went through another organization process, being sorted into teams inside of a box. I looked through my folders daily and reread the stats on the back of the cards.

Besides collecting cards, some of my favorite memories as a kid took place on the diamond. I fondly remember hot Oklahoma summer days getting sunburned while playing Little League. Baseball brought me and my friends together as we yelled, “Hey batter, batter, batter,” and other chants while trying to get a win. We argued about our favorite players and favorite teams, and rode our bikes all over town, buying cards from a variety of stores.

I knew early on I would not get a Hall of Fame plaque with my name on it, but I always dreamed of visiting Cooperstown’s Baseball Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, it took me a very long time to walk the aisles that showcased baseball’s elite.

I drove the four hours from New York City to Cooperstown with three of my kids. We wanted to do more than visit the Baseball Hall of Fame, so we spent three nights and four days exploring the town. After a hike in the nearby woods and a trip to the Farmer’s Museum, we entered the Hall of Fame to pick up our tickets.

On entering, my kids received a scavenger hunt sheet full of questions with answers found in the exhibits. My 16-year-old acted like he didn’t want to fill out a paper and volunteered to help his younger siblings, but if kids fill out the paper and turn them in at the end of their visit, they receive a packet of baseball cards. Since I wanted everyone to have their own pack, I filled out the questionnaire my oldest received. This sheet helped me by entertaining my kids so I could spend more time perusing the plethora of baseball memorabilia. As we toured the museum, it was obvious I wasn’t the only dad filling out a kid’s sheet.  Everywhere you looked, there was a dad holding a paper and pencil while their kids wandered around. Occasionally, I would greet other dads with a smile of acknowledgment.

Before I go on, I want to mention the friendly staff at the Baseball Hall of Fame. From the person greeting us at the entrance to those in the gift shop, everyone was kind and generous with their time. One employee, who we bumped into throughout the day, showed us exhibits and provided his knowledge on people, artifacts and games. And he was patient with my little ones while they badgered him with questions and comments. The Baseball Hall of Fame has the kindest employees out of any museum I have ever visited.

As I walked around the Hall of Fame, it took me back to being that kid on the floor of my bedroom who loved baseball. I relived staring at my TV during George Brett’s pine tar incident while looking at the bat that caused the controversy. Pete Rose’s shoes and bat brought me back to glorifying his playing style and being heartbroken by his gambling and banning from Major League Baseball. Cal Ripken Jr.’s helmet sat behind the glass, and I once again admired his commitment to baseball and the fans. We also walked through exhibits discussing baseball’s racist past, the Negro Leagues, and the great Jackie Robinson. Other exhibits honored Latin players and the women who played. With each stop, I talked to my kids about the players and the memories they stirred.

Walking through the Baseball Hall of Fame wasn’t only about exploring baseball’s history, but it was also about exploring mine. With baseball being a big part of my childhood, fond memories opened up again. What made it even more special was that I got to run through my memories with my kids by my side.

My oldest is 16 and all-too-soon will be caught in a rundown between taking his own path and the home he grew up in. In a way, it’s already started. Standing next to him while looking at memorabilia touched by baseball’s greatest players; I foresaw an older son standing with his kids in front of the glass and sharing moments of going to Mets’ games and, hopefully, fondly recalling playing catch with his old man. He pointed to a question on his brother’s sheet and helped him spell out the answer. My chest was full of pride of the young man he has become. This had nothing to do with the love of the game, but because of a love for who my kids are. That’s what the Baseball Hall of Fame provided me. To remember how far I’ve come and who I’ve brought with me.

Baseball stirred memories that reminded me time is fleeting and to spend it as wisely as possible. As a dad, I’m the team manager and it’s the 7th inning stretch. There isn’t a lot of game left, but plenty of time to make an impact. I’m reminded to have fun, play hard, and get the line-up ready to make the save. Visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame was a parenting win with lifetime statistics racked up with wins and losses. I cherish moments like our tour because it was one for the win column.

If you’ve been contemplating making the trip to Cooperstown with your kids, I suggest you put it on the calendar. It will bring up old memories and provide new ones.

Baseball Hall of Fame Tips

Tickets:
Tickets are timed. It’s recommended to buy your tickets ahead of time. You don’t want to show up and try and purchase your tickets the same day. It’s possible you will not be allowed to enter.

Kids under 6 are free.
Adults and Seniors are $25.
Juniors are $15.
Veterans receive a $7 discount with proof of service.

Hours:
The museum is open 7 days a week from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. between Memorial Day and Labor Day, and 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. the rest of the year.

Disclaimer: This Is Cooperstown sponsored Jason’s visit. The words and photos shared in this post are his own. A version of this post first appeared on One Good Dad. All photos by Jason Greene.

I’ve been wrong about something. There’s not much unusual about that but, sadly, I was judgmental in my wrongness. I probably even judged you.

First, a quick story – which for me is oxymoronic – but I’ll try …

The Cincinnati Reds are in the World Series and it’s the night of the fourth game. These are the 1990 wire-to-wire Reds and they are putting the whomp on the A’s. I am working tables at a high-end restaurant on the second level of a downtown Cincinnati hotel. Delmonico’s at The Westin, or Del’s as everyone calls it, has floor-to-ceiling windows that look down upon our lovely downtown square with its sculpture fountain, cleverly (and with Midwestern practicality) called Fountain Square. The dining room itself is tiered so most every table has a view.

I am a “captain” on this night; my buddy, John, is my back waiter. We are assigned the coveted bottom tier station right on the window. It is a crazy night, and everyone wants a table on those windows. Needless to say, I am not keeping track of the game, but I do have an unprecedented view of the crowd outside growing and growing. The box score is on a big screen in a corner of the square I can’t see. All I can make out is a sea of red and I can hear the occasional roar when our team makes a play.

Around 11 or so we are winding down. A few tables are left watching the crowd and lingering over coffee. I decide to go downstairs to get a drink while John watches the tables. Are we allowed to do this? Well … let’s just say we all did.

The bar is called The Corner Bar because it is, well, on the corner of the hotel facing the square and the main street that led down to the colossal Riverfront Stadium, home of the Reds. I take the service elevator to first floor and head to the bar which has an entrance from the hotel atrium. It is important to note that I am wearing tuxedo pants and shirt — with studs — a black bowtie and a white waiter’s jacket and a long white apron, French bistro style. I look good and professional.

The hallway I walk down is angled a bit and I can’t really see into the bar although it is noisy, which I expected. I turn to walk in and, just as I cross the threshold, the whole place busts out in madness. Several tripods of camera lights flash on and a camera is pointed right at me as I enter. Next to the door is a reporter and he is saying something about the hometown crowd and “live from downtown Cincinnati …”

Yep, I’d blundered right into the live feed of the local crowd on the nationally televised game in Oakland. Literally, as they opened the feed, there I am in my full waiter regalia, nametag and all. I got calls for days about it. The first guy anyone sees in Cincy is a local waiter trying to get himself a drink.

I quickly duck toward the service bar, also ducking the reporter who was looking for someone to interview. Seeing as how I was on the clock, in uniform and all, that seemed like a good idea. I order a couple of Black Russians, put them on a tray and duck back out.

John and I spent the next hour or two watching and waving at the crowd. Even though I’d recently left New York City where I’d worked in bars and restaurants for the past four or so years, I’d never seen this level of fandom. People were so happy, marching triumphantly nowhere, jumping up and down, drinking and cheering. It was unforgettable…

I’ve told this story over the years a number of times, the focus, of course, being on me and the surprise and all of it. But recently when I told it to a buddy I hadn’t be in touch with for some time, something weird happened. The crowd looked different in my memory.

Where I’d seen chaos and a sort of madness before, now I saw the joy and unbridled excitement of the win. Where once I’d seen homemade banners and brooms (it was a sweep, remember?), I saw folks making those banners, lettering a bedsheet in there sleepy suburban home, and bringing it down to the big city. I somehow saw people stopping at a hardware store for a broom, or a liquor store for a flask.

In this most recent remembering, I saw the families. There were kids and teens everywhere, breathing in the wildness and screaming their hearts out. I saw high fives between dads and sons, hugs and kisses for the littles. I’d forgotten that.

What has all this to do with me being wrong and judgmental? When the world shut down in March because of COVID-19 and it became clear there would be no baseball Opening Day, no parade, no rallies, I was initially sad but quickly came to see that it was best and I didn’t miss the games that much. And then … the season began again, truncated and limping, and I was happy to see the games again.

Anyone who knows me knows I know baseball’s the best sport. I am quick to point out what I see as the flaws in football and basketball, hockey and soccer, and many other sports. Ipso facto: Your enjoyment of your chosen sport is inferior to mine.

But as golf and the NBA and the NHL began playing again this summer, I saw how much it meant to the fans of those sports. Here’s what I am most sorry about — missing the fact that all these sports bring great joy to families around the world.

Yours is not a failed attempt at mine, and vice versa. I shouldn’t question your choice of sport, your level of fandom. A friend of my wife works in the front office of the champion Bolts down in Tampa. He recently posted an image of his him, his wife and two young daughters posing with that big ole Stanley Cup won this pandemic season, they look so happy. Another buddy is an avid fan Manchester United and gets up early in mornings to watch the English soccer games; it makes him happy. A buddy in L.A. watches endless golf matches even though he has never held a driver in his life.

The sports thing — and the music thing and the art thing and the movie thing and, well, all the stuff folks love — it brings us together. My twin boys, pushing 16 now, are getting the short stick on this one this year. There’ve been no Friday Night Lights to get wild at this year; they’ve missed that. Even though some sports play on to limited crowds, there is no theater this fall, no music concerts, no quarterly art show. Clubs are not meeting, no debate, no chess or after school diversity programs.

I am sorry for them, sorry for us. I forget, my being a bit introverted, how essential “others” are to us, to them, to society writ large. Every day during this ongoing pandemic I see these kids get screwed and I wish something could be done for them. So, we’ll watch the World Series on TV together and I’ll tell stories and we’ll try to create community, remembering that in households across our home town and the country and the world, you all are trying to as well.

Hopefully, soon, we’ll all be able to rally at the fountain square or watch a sports game at the corner bar. We’ll meet you there, all right?

About the author

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Sports crowd photo: ©Jason Stitt / Adobe Stock.

I’m finding it difficult deciding what to write about, my friends. It’s not that I don’t have ideas; it’s just that I don’t know what might be best or how to make sense of what I do know.

I have written here about baseball a few times. I guess I could again, even without games being played, big or little league. Baseball memories linger long, as you know. In fact, I just came across an image from a Little League game some years back. It was taken from behind the backstop showing one of my twin sons crouching in too-big catcher’s gear and the other twin on the mound, his left arm just coming down after the pitch, a slider it looks like. Between the two, the ball hangs, fuzzy in its movement, like a ghost in flight between one memory and another. It was the first time for a “Peebles battery” and the picture brought the moment right back to me.

However, without a season currently, the memories seem to hurt more than console.

I’ve written on faith for you in the past, sometimes unpopularly, I should add. I could, I suppose, go there again. I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude: the sheer simplicity of it, the inherent humility in it, the wonder at witnessing it in others, especially my now teenage sons. I know how it helps my faith, which, if I were honest, needs all the help it can get right now. I guess I could ponder that, as well. Stumbling and getting my knees scraped up as I careen and crash down my faith journey could make a good story.

But I haven’t been to church in months. I’m not sure my heart would be in it. Also, I can only hear my cries for gratitude landing on so many who have so little to be thankful for right now, which feels a bit insensitive, I guess.

Beginnings, endings make more sense than present

You have indulged my baffling fascination with what I’ve called “beginnings” and “endings.” Thanks for that. I think a lot about timelines and where we are on them, in whose time … it’s difficult to explain.

Anyway, I currently live a life that seems to simply be the present. I’m sure many others feel that way. Asking ourselves to consider what is ahead or closely examine what was just behind us is, if you’ll forgive me, untimely. Literally, now, this now, is not the time.

I could fall back on my folksy, narrative style and tell a story. Like this one: I was standing in my kitchen with my hand in a deli bag of sliced salami — as one does — when one of the boys walked in and said, “I don’t know what to do.” I guess he was bored but the question seemed more weighted than that alone. I immediately handed him a slice of salami and said, “You do now.” He took the slice, thanked me, and wandered off. Maybe I could vamp on that a bit, rhapsodizing on the notion of how, sometimes, all you can do is the next right thing, but I’m not sure it would be very genuine and, honestly, I’m not sure I know what the next right thing is anymore.

I guess that is the root of the problem here, isn’t it? The things I used to feel were so right, don’t seem to make as much sense anymore.

Should I write of a pandemic that is killing so many, wrecking the economy, and ruining the daily lives of families everywhere? I could but, I’d probably have to leave out a lot. Like that this time has definitely brought our family together just as it was beginning to fracture into the busyness of high school life. There would not be so many games of Scrabble or euchre or hearts, far fewer movies and dinners together and cooking sessions. I would not have the opportunity to watch our sons face the stress and adversity that remote learning and social distancing has placed on them. They’re 15, and, well, would most certainly rather be among their peers, especially girl peers.

Honestly, I’d probably be tempted to brag about them, tell you how proud I am of the grace and pleasantness they’ve exhibited through all of this. I am not sure that that sort of message would make sense when I know parents everywhere are having a very hard time with their teenagers — children in general, I’m sure.

Showing my age, privilege

Should I write about protests and racial injustice? I am an old white Boomer and fear I am as much the problem as solution, and I am sure my thoughts are less than relevant.

I could tell you about my feeble attempts at explaining all this to my sons, my years of explaining our privilege as whites in an uncomfortably “undiverse” community and school district — a subject they are better equipped to advise me on than I them.

If I did try to write on this subject, I’d have to admit that I am not a protest kind of guy. The energetic and emotionally charged crowds truly frighten me. I want my sons to know they are free to protest, march and voice their disdain, but I’d be afraid for myself and afraid to look the fool to them, honestly.

What of the lack of leadership I see at the highest levels in our country? I could justifiably rant for thousands of words on this alone. My guess is, I don’t need to. Integrity, decency, honesty, humility are all not hard to spot — and the lack of them is even easier to discern. Also, the final one-word answer to that is simply this: VOTE!

There is one thing, though, that I truly don’t want to write about: my anguish.

Sometimes the suffering and pain I see overwhelm me. I sit in my cozy home, surrounded by a loving family where I watch the world burn with a literal and figurative fever that rages in a way I have never seen before.

On the news, I see images of courageous healthcare workers behind masks and gowns, and see only the burden and sadness in their eyes.

I watch videos of these huge marches and see only the individuals behind the posters and raised fists, and I feel the bitter, justified anger in each face. But I also see the hope in the same faces and choke back a sob at the two emotions so painfully entwined.

I look for leadership, direction, encouragement, and comfort from those in power. Instead, I get nothing but rhetoric and mixed messages and my anger turns inward metastasizing into deep resentment and, honestly, debilitating rage.

I would like to apologize for my lack of courage. Other writers here have found theirs and have written on these very subjects with great eloquence and strength.

So, that’s where I am at right now, any advice would be welcome.

As always, peace to you,

Bill

P.S. I forgot to mention, I’ve got a pretty good piece about teaching the boys to mow the lawn:  rules, and advice, stories, that sort of thing. That’d probably be best, don’t you think?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. Bill believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Make sense of world in crisis photo: © funstarts33 / Adobe Stock.

I remember being extra fidgety one Sunday morning while sitting in the stark white Presbyterian church of my childhood. I used to bounce my leg a lot when I was little — something one of my own sons does now — and my dad would pinch my knee between his thumb and forefinger to grab my attention so I would stop.

This particular Sunday, my dad had done this a few times, each with increasing pressure. It was an autumn day and the Cincinnati Reds — the legendary Big Red Machine of the 1970s — were in baseball’s playoffs once again, and I was distracted. I really didn’t want to be there.

Finally, my dad had to whisper between gritted teeth to stop fidgeting.

“But I’m soooo bored,” I whispered back.

His response still echoes in my mind some 45 years later, “If you’re bored, you are not paying attention.”

Baseball is life; life is baseball

I’ve been accused of watching too much baseball. I do watch a lot, almost every game the Reds play over the summer, and the All-Star game, and the playoffs and the World Series. Yeah, I guess maybe I do watch too much baseball, but I never find it dull.

“It’s so boring,” my friends say.

“It’s so slow, waiting around for the pitchers to pitch and the batters to adjust the Velcro on their gloves,” they lament. “There’s no action.”

I guess that’s how you could see it. But I see it differently. I find my attention drawn to the edges where my imagination makes it even more interesting.

Let’s take a look at that scene in the batter’s box. See that hitter there, waiting for the pitch? Ignore him. Look around him. Behind him. Around the edge of your TV screen. See those three boys in rally caps, age 8 or maybe 9, hanging on every pitch, waving their rally towels to distract the pitcher. Man, they look like their having a great night, staying up late and rooting for the home team.

Now a left-handed batter is up. Behind him there’s a grandfather and a little girl laughing and talking as he points to this base, that player, teaching her the game he’s loved for so many years. Do you see her hair ribbons? They are the team colors.

At another game, in the front row, an elderly man wears a pink cap to every game so his wife knows he’s at the game and thinking of her.

Now there’s a pop-up over the netting. Look at that crowd, all trying for the ball, hoping for a souvenir, and smiling and laughing and cheering for the teenage boy who snowcones it just at the last minute.

Now, ignore the tears in my eyes as he hands it to his little brother and the crowd oohs and ahhs at the sweetness of the scene.

Pay mind to the ball boys and ball girls handling those sizzling fouls up the lines then turning and giving it to the kid with bushy hair and an oversized glove.

Often the camera operators will pan the crowd and what do the find? Families. Friends. Young couples. Happy people. Serious fans. Maybe a team of Little Leaguers in their uniforms.

Now, let’s look again on the field. See that player with the giant biceps and the long face in the batter’s box? Watch as he hits a three-run homer the day he returned from bereavement leave for the death of his father, his biggest fan. Cry with him, watch the hugs in the dugout, hear the crack in the announcer’s voice. Feel your heart soar and break in the exact same moment.

Another game now on Mother’s Day. The boys on the tilt are in pink hats. Some of the bats are pink. The lineup is listed as “Wendy Votto’s son” and “Maritza Puig’s son” and so on. It is not at all difficult to let your imagination go and see all those athletes as little boys batting off tees, dropping routine flies and stealing their first bases. In them, you see your own boys and girls on the fields of their youth. Perhaps they even become you striking out to lose the big game, or accidentally making your way around the bases on an error filled grand slam.

On yet another day, a boy named Eugenio smacks his 48th home run of the season and sets a record for the most major league homers for a native of Venezuela player. See the pride in his face, the joy of his teammates as they celebrate with a bottle of champagne and sing his native national anthem. Look just one more time, see the little boy dreaming of this day? He’s still in that grown man.

Attention paid pays dividends

So, what makes baseball not boring to me? The stories. Good ones, happy ones, sad ones, ongoing ones. That’s why I watch baseball. It’s one long damn story and I am glad to be a part of it, from that first T-ball game I coached to the World Series games I’ll be watching soon — it is all one story and I love it.

I’ve been telling my sons for 14 years now “if you’re bored, you’re not paying attention.” I think it has worked. They are content looking out a window on a long car ride or sitting through a long Easter Mass.  I see them looking up, looking out, looking around the corners and at the edges because that’s where the stories live.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Attention on the diamond photo: ©terovesalainen / Adobe Stock.

Some of the most spiritual moments I have ever had came on a baseball field. This one came just walking past one.

I walked past an empty field yesterday and it was like an old friend was waving. Inviting me to visit. Welcoming me with a warm hug.

I stopped and took it all in.

The sun hit the fence and the dirt just right and it was like a portal back to my childhood. For a few moments the stress of adulthood withered and the hope and promise of youth coursed through my veins as I breathed in the familiar concoction of grass and dirt and the approaching fall’s breeze.

All seemed right with the world.

Right next to the baseball field, my daughter turned somersaults. The soft sun catching the tendrils of her hair as she personified the carelessness of youth I was remembering.

It was funny how that sight was like an elixir that no doctor could prescribe. It was just a field. One I had never even played on, yet it seemed familiar.

The memories flooded back. The way my cleats would nestle into the granules of dirt as I watched the plant leg of the pitcher – contemplating a swift steal of second. The cool feel of the grass when you dove for a ball that was just out of reach. The way a piece of your soul flew with the ball when you hit it just right.

And there I stood like Moonlight Graham in Field of Dreams, on the wrong side of the gravel with a goofy grin on my face knowing I can never touch my dream again. So why was I smiling? Because I was watching my daughter touch her dreams.

I swear that’s what that baseball field was directing me to see. This is her time. These are her moments to bottle up and remember.

Perhaps Dr. Graham said it best: “We just don’t recognize life’s most significant moments while they’re happening.”

Seeing the field isn’t the same as just looking at it. And thanks to seeing this field, my eyes are open now to these small moments that are significant ones.

A version of this first appeared on Tales from the Poop Deck.