BATTER UP
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Eleven-year-old Henry strode into the kitchen, shoulders thrown back, proudly sporting his Applebee’s Paramus baseball uniform — red shirt, crisp white pants cinched by a black belt, red cap and sneakers.
His dad Chris, serving as substitute coach for this 10 AM Saturday game, wore almost the identical uniform 40 years ago when he played third base for his Ridgewood Baseball Association recreational team. Looking at my son and grandson, I wondered, how did those four decades evaporate in a heartbeat.
“Uh, Dad, do I really have to use this?” Henry asked, holding up a plastic athletic cup. “You’ll be glad you did if you get hit by a ball,” Chris said. “Oh alright,” Henry muttered. (Whether I had that conversation with Chris is murky!)
FACT: The first baseball game in the USA was
played in New Jersey on June 19, 1846.
The morning temperature at the Somerville School baseball field hovered just above 50, with gusty winds sweeping in from the dandelion-dotted outfield. Parents wrapped in blankets and swathed in down jackets hunkered down in plastic chairs along the first base line, eager to cheer their fourth and fifth graders.
I sat with daughter-in-law Jen and Jojo, their tightly-leashed six-month-old uber-exuberant puppy, who leapt and barked enthusiastically when anyone walked within 20 feet of us.
The six-inning game featured Home Lumber Supply versus Henry’s team, Applebee’s Paramus.
“All balls in,” the field umpire yelled. “Batter up!”
Coach Chris, looking not exactly Alex Cora-esque in his maroon Phish cap, grey athletic shorts and striped orange socks, studied the lineup sheet. “Owen, Henry, Reid — you’re up,” he announced. “Let’s give the fielders some work.”
“Good eye,” Chris yelled as a ball flew 15 feet over the batter’s head.
“Keep that back foot still,” the home plate ump hollered.
“Don’t run until I give you the signal,” a dad shouted from third base.
“Full count,” Chris called to Henry. “Wait for a good one.”
“Ball outside,” the umpire said.
Henry walked to first. Two errant pitches later, he stole second. Big hit to right field, Henry trotted to third. Overthrow at first, Henry sped home and SCORES! The Applebees erupted in glee.
FACT: Ricky Henderson had a staggering
1406 stolen bases.
By now the temperature had risen to a balmy 55. But the brutal wind chill had every parent cupping their numb fingers and breathing warm air and life back into them. Jojo had depleted all her “Good girl” treats and was sound asleep by Jen’s feet. “What inning?” I asked Jen. “Oh my God, I hope it’s the top of the sixth.”
The ‘Bees triumphed, trouncing Home Lumber Supply 6 to 2. Joy in Mudville! “Applebees! Applebees! We sting you!” the boys cheered.
For me, it was a poignant trip down Memory Lane. Today, arthritis grabs my lower back, grey hairs clash with my highlighted locks, but I easily recall watching my 10-year-old freckle-faced tow-headed son blast balls to center field. I remember bringing our yellow Labrador to Chris’ games, my pockets filled with Pup-Peroni bites. Even the calls — “good eye!” and “wait for your pitch” — put me right back there.
Yogi Berra once said, “Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” Correct on all counts, Yogi.
