As a boy I wasn't particularly gifted in sports, but I did play tee ball for a couple years. We had team names and uniforms that mirrored Major League Baseball teams. I played my "rookie" year with the Reds and was later "traded" to the Tigers. I remember that my coaches smoked and chewed tobacco, and after games we ate granola bars and drank that awful fruit punch that burns the back of your throat if you swallow it too fast. I struck out a lot, and when I did hit the ball, I was invariably thrown out at first. I don't know if I ever crossed home plate, but I must have liked the game enough, because I came back for a second season in Camp Pendleton and later played Little League when we moved to Tennessee. And more than two decades later, I remember those times as pleasant and fun. To this day, the smell of the leather and cork that make up a baseball reminds me of dusty ball fields and tobacco indulgent coaches in Southern California.
When I was six, my dad took my younger brother Scott and me to a professional baseball game in San Diego. I suspect, knowing my dad, that he liked seeing me take part in athletics, and he viewed this outing as a way of encouraging me. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves waiting in line at Qualcomm Stadium, getting ready to watch a real baseball game between the real teams that our tee ball squads were named for.
At this point in time, my level of support for a team was solely dependent on whether I had heard of them. As my familiarity with a given ball club (or really with the team name) increased, so did my support. Because I played for the Reds, they were probably my favorite team, but I had also become exposed to other team names whether by playing games against them or through other means. I had no real concept of rooting for the home team, although I suppose my little system isn't much different than fans cheering for the local club, the one they are the most familiar with.
The game that Dad, Scott, and I attended was between the Padres and the Phillies. My dad had a Padres shirt that he sometimes let me wear as a nightshirt when I went to bed. Unfortunately, I also had a friend whose brother played on the Phillies tee ball team, which led to a quandary. I was equally familiar with both teams, having been exposed to each through other people's shirts.
"Mom," I confessed before the game, "I don't know who to cheer for."
"I'm going to cheer for the Padres," she said.
I don't remember my mother attending the game with us. I'm sure she had to stay home and watch our toddler little sister. Still her prompt answer and conviction convinced me to cheer for the Padres. Of course it never dawned on me that San Diego was the home team, and everyone would be cheering for them.
My memories of the game itself are disjointed, but they are clear. They consist of images and emotions rather than coherent events. The line getting into the stadium was long. The players wore powder blue jerseys. Dad bought us hot chocolate that tasted more like water than chocolate. And I remember having fun. I'm sure we got bored at some point. Baseball is a long game for little kids, which is probably why Dad had to feed us to keep us interested. Still, I don't really remember the boredom. We were out on a special father and sons night doing something really cool. Even the tasteless hot chocolate was extra special because of where we were.
That night is one of my fondest memories of my early childhood. I was so grateful to my dad for taking us to such a great place and even giving us treats when we got there. In fact, I still am. Almost a quarter century after the fact, I still feel deeply moved by the generosity that I felt my dad was showing us. And if that isn't a few bucks and an evening well spent, I don't know what is.
