Chip Off the Old Block

Reprinted with permission from Guideposts.

Baseball may be America's favorite pastime, but it was never mine. As a kid, I would stand as deep in the outfield as I could, praying all the while, Don't let the ball come to me. Once, after I failed to swing at an easy pitch, a gym coach rolled the ball on the ground toward me, asking if I wanted to play golf.

Still, as an adult I learned to enjoy going to baseball games and even became a Texas Rangers fan. Of course, I avoided playing. But I wanted my eight-year-old son, Ryan, to give the game a try so I signed him up for a machine-pitch baseball league. I hoped my son would not be as bad at baseball as I was.

At Ryan's first game I shifted nervously on the bleachers. Dear Lord, please let baseball be different for Ryan than it was for me. "Come on, son!" I called out, trying to echo the other dads. The arm of the pitching machine wound up and tossed the ball. Ryan took a mighty swing at it . . . and missed. The machine hurled the next pitch. Another swing and a miss. Swing. Miss. Again and again. The only thing different from my experience was that Ryan had a machine throwing to him instead of a pitcher who would crack jokes at his expense.

Ryan hadn't connected with the ball even once. As he came up to me later, I braced myself to see a frustrated little boy. He was all smiles.

"Daddy," he said, "can I have a sno-cone?"

"Sure," I replied as we walked to the car. He's taking this awfully well, I thought. Maybe he'll do better the next time. After all, there was a whole season ahead.

But no, Ryan was a chip off the old block. Game after game it was one strikeout after another, like clockwork. At Ryan's level of machine-pitch baseball the kids were allowed five strikes. Five chances to hit the ball and every time Ryan missed. I tried to encourage him. But it hurt to watch the strikeouts. Some swings looked oh-so-close-but they were still strikes.

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