One of my favorite memories as a child was playing baseball. I was a timid lefty playing the outfield in the Ozone-Howard Little League. I was very shy around other people, but I didn’t sit back when it came to snagging fly balls and making hard throws to an infielder. Playing also gave me the chance to bond with my dad, and I treasured that. Now that I’m a dad, I get to watch my son Matthew take his turn at bat.
As a player, I had a sharp eye at home plate, and my swing was pretty good, so I was usually lead-off batter, digging my cleats into the dirt with the hopes of getting a hit or earning a walk to first base. My fielding was probably better than my offense, and I usually played either centerfield or left field. I played at four fields in Queens — Charles Park in Howard Beach, Centerville Park, a field by North Conduit Avenue, and a beautiful field near Aqueduct Racetrack in Ozone Park.
I still remember many of the games, the nervousness I felt hours and minutes before running out on the field, the faces of my teammates — and of the opposing teams, managers that taught me aspects of the game and fundamentals of the sport, pizza parties held and trophies given at the end of a season, putting on that uniform, and oiling the glove to make it softer and easier to open and close when that white ball with the red stitching found its way into it.
One of my favorite parts of the game was, ironically, after the game. My father would take me to McDonald’s, return to the field, eat a few cheeseburgers and French fries on a bench or in the dugout, and then give me some precious time in which he hit fly balls and grounders to me. It was a post-game ritual that I really treasured.
Of course, I played the game for the love of it, for the fun of it, for the team, and for myself. But I remember how important it was for me to make my dad proud. When I got a hit, I would look for my father to see if he had a big smile on his face or a hand in the air, or if he was talking to another parent about the proud moment of seeing his son do well.
Just the same, I remember feeling bad when I made an error or struck out, thinking about how disappointed my dad could have been because I was not able to make a positive play with the bat or glove. Striking out without swinging the bat was easily the worst. If I was going to strike out, my father would always encourage me to go down swinging. But when you’re a timid, peanut-sized kid facing a pitcher throwing bolts of lightning, it was very tempting to lift your front foot, move it away from the pitch, and watch the ball go right over the strike zone and into the catcher’s mitt for an umpire’s call of “Striiike three — you’re out!”
Fast forward a few decades later, and I have the joy and privilege of watching my son, Matthew, play Little League baseball near our home in Astoria. It is magical and has a little taste of deja vu.
Matthew is a timid, peanut-sized lefty who plays different positions at this early stage of the game. He has a great swing, a good arm, and his biggest fan is his father. He looks terrific in his uniform, but his play on the field and his progress in such a short period of time is even more terrific. The season began as tee-ball, but Matthew is now hitting the baseball that is being pitched by the head coach. What an amazing thing it is to see his black-and-yellow aluminum bat make contact with a ball being thrown in his direction!
I never played on a squad with a professional team’s name (ours were named after sponsors), but Matthew plays for the San Francisco Giants. Recently, Matthew had a game against the Oakland A’s. I was so proud of the way he hit the ball and the focus he maintained on the field throughout the entire game (even if not too many balls were hit to him).
Each time he reached first base, I called his name very loudly and gave him a thumbs up. The smile he gave me reminded me of the smile I had whenever I made my father proud. It was like a Kodak moment that will last a lifetime.
Following the game, my wife and I stopped off at McDonald’s to get Matthew a Happy Meal. To tell you the truth, I don’t know who was happier.
