Take me out to the ballgame

Last week we went to a baseball game with our church. It was a beautiful night for a game. It was just warm enough to keep from getting chilly as the sun went down, but not so hot that you’d be miserable; the sky was the perfect shade of blue without a cloud in the sky. A barbershop quartet sang the national anthem as a slight breeze made the stars and stripes stand proud in the summer sun.

And my kids could not have had less fun if they had tried.

Maybe we have failed them as parents. Or maybe we’re just too much of a football family. I’d like to blame it on the culture or their Xbox, but I’m sure I am at least partly to blame.

I have never really been much for watching baseball, but when I was my kid’s age I absolutely loved playing the game. I’ll never forget the day my coach tossed me a catcher’s mitt he had bought for me; the first time someone had invested in me that didn’t have to. It was that investment that told me I was good at something. It encouraged me to lean into who I was and it gave me my first pulpit from which I preached the gospel of, “I dare you to try and take home frome me.”

More than the games, though, was the fun we had between games. The racing to the concession stand for our free snow cone after every game and eating it while we watched the bigger kids play. The cloud of dust that was kicked up as we played wallball out behind the bathroom.

We ended up leaving the game before it was over, but for the seven innings we were there, it was nice remembering a simpler time when baseball was fun and snow cones could solve all the world’s problems. As we walked to the car, I heard the crack of a bat and the cheer of the crowd and for a split second it was like an old melody I had long forgotten.

And I hummed that tune all the way home.