Nick Sherman

Today I learned a valuable lesson: Never go to a baseball game with your parents if your dad is over 50. If you tell him the deal you got on seats he’ll have you know he used to get in for a dollar, if you try to get him to get up and dance he’ll tell you to sit down and watch the game, and if you buy him a hot dog he’ll tell you they used to make them bigger and that this one is smaller than his dick. I immediately regretted adding mayonnaise to mine.

While all of those are a good basis to avoid going to a baseball game with your dad, the real reason is that he’ll get nostalgic and jealous. My dad looks at talented young athletes like John Wayne Gacy looks at boy scouts.

“I can’t hit a hardball anymore Nick,” he’ll tell me, “In my over 55 league, I must have batted about .140; probably had four hits the whole season. I just can’t keep my eye on the ball like I could before; it makes me want to see an eye doctor.”

Perhaps an eye doctor is just a bit too specific for this lapse in ability. It certainly couldn’t have anything to do with the natural deterioration of his strength, reflexes, and cognition now could it?

It’s one of the worse cases of denial I’ve seen, and this rationalization has seeped into his habit of buying things he thinks he needs.

 “Did your brother tell you? I bought a new bat!”

“Again?” I asked him.

“No, I just got this a few weeks ago. It’s a two hundred fifty dollar titanium bat, but they gave it to me for $216.”

“That’s a lot of money for a bat, Dad. Have you used it yet?”

“Nope. I still need to make sure it’s legal in my league. Most of the umpires don’t care, but some of them take it really seriously.”

“You don’t say.”

I could only nod my head in an odd mix of pity, contempt, and disbelief. Two years ago, my Dad got pegged and had back pain for weeks. The year before that, he ripped a hamstring sprinting to first. The year before that, he tore his rotator cuff sliding head first into second base. What’s going to happen one of these days if he decides to round third? He’s 62 years old and he plays ball like he’s a kid. Ever since he passed 40 it seemed the only part of him that hadn’t been injured was his pride but that changed after today.

As a diving catch in the outfield erupted a roar of applause around the fourth inning, the yearning from his eyes dripped into his fourth beer. He swallowed it down and got a refill.

“I don’t think I can play baseball anymore,” he started, “I think I’ll have to only play softball.” My Dad is the second oldest player in the  neighborhood softball league, runner-up only to a man who gets down on one knee, praying before every at bat and named the team after himself‒”The Bob’s”. Bob is 65 and thinks his underhand pitch with backspin is unhittable. He also thinks his daughter is unhittable, but I can contend to that.

“Even if you can’t play hardball Dad, softball’s still fun though isn’t it?” I asked.

He grunted and took a sip from his beer. He let it sit in his mouth for a minute then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. He didn’t say anything but I knew what he was thinking: his son’s playing shortstop and left field while he sits in right, finally getting on base, then his wife hits into a double play, telling her that fly ball she misread was a “hard catch” if he wanted a kiss goodnight.

 I’d always wished that my dad would someday realize that it was enough to have had fun; that he’d gotten the most out of his youth when he had the chance. Sure, everyone wishes they could be a great baseball player or something like that but the truth is, we can’t all be winners. Isn’t it enough to just be a player? To know that you got on the field, swung your hardest, and maybe even gotten to first, second, or third base with girls on the other team like I did? The ballpark makes him especially sentimental but it’s hard for me to feel bad for him when he’s sitting next to his wife and child staring off at the green grass of the field wondering “what if”. Despite the physical and aesthetic evidence to the contrary, it makes me wonder if he’s grown up at all.

The game ended and we left the stadium with the excited crowd. He stood in front of a statue of Willie Mays and I turned to see him narrow his brow.

“C’mon Dad, Mom’s waiting for us.”

“He was such a good player,” he said, “I’d watch him whenever I got the chance.”

“He was a professional but… he grew up too you know. You got your shot, just like he did.”

“He probably played till he couldn’t pick up a bat.”

“And as much as it scares me, I know you will too.”

“I don’t think so. I’m already resorting to softball; I won’t be playing that much longer. Can you imagine? Willie Mays in our league playing softball?” He gritted a smile and laughed disingenuously. Putting his hands in his pockets he walked towards me, turning back one last time to look at the statue.

“I’ll bet he never quit playing baseball.”

 “You might be right Dad, but he probably just had a better eye doctor.”