As America counts down the days to the end of political ads and solicitations polluting their screens, I'm trying once again to get back into baseball.
I grew up enamored with the game, as a little leaguer and as a fan of three teams: The Cubs, the White Sox, and the Dodgers. (I didn't know that liking more than one team was sacreligious, let alone both teams from the Windy City. I liked the Cubs and White Sox because I liked all things Chicago, and I liked the Dodgers because my father did--he grew up admiring Jackie Robinson and Pee Wee Reese, and I grew up watching Fernando Valenzuela and Kirk Gibson. I digress.)
My predilection for baseball was first halted during the 1994 strike--I stopped watching and collecting baseball cards at that point. And I didn't stop playing for a few more years. I loved to play, but I was a better tennis player. And in Ohio, boys' tennis is in the spring, competing with baseball. I chose tennis.
Lori and I are trying to expose Eli to all the sports (and arts) and other activities that we can, and baseball's been among them. But try though I have, I haven't been able to get him interested in the playoffs this, or in any prior, postseason.
Perhaps I need to placate his competitive nature, and get into the pre-computer fantasy baseball that my father once played with the scrupulousness that you'd expect from a Harvard-trained tax attorney.
When I was in Kindergarten, I overheard my dad telling my mom that the great Mike Schmidt was "on his team." I had no idea what that meant, but I knew who Mike Schmidt was--he was the aging superstar of the Philadelphia Phillies, and most importantly, one of the three "Mikes" or "Michaels" I admired because we shared a first name, the others of course being Jackson and Jordan. I did not know that my father was referencing his fantasy baseball team, which he had drafted that night.
The next day at school, a gaggle of us were talking about the start of baseball season. I can't imagine it was a terribly substantive conversation, though I likely knew more about the game as a six-year old than I do now. But at some point, one of us said something favorable about Mike Schmidt, and I immediately reported that Mike Schmidt was "on my dad's team." I didn't think anything of it, not knowing what it meant, and I didn't sense anyone else did either. I was wrong.
A few days later, a member of that gaggle approached my dad and me, along with his own father. "Hi, are you George Corey?" Mr. Bring asked."Yes, nice to meet you," my dad said. "So I understand you used to play ball with Mike Schmidt! My son and I tried looking you up in the Baseball Encyclopedia, but we couldn't find you! When did you play with him?!"
My dad repressed his laughter, not wanting to be rude. Politely, he asked what the heck he was talking about. "Oh, well your son told our son that Mike Schmidt was a teammate of yours, so we just assumed you were a ballplayer back in the day!"
If you ever knew my father, you'll remember his heartiest laughs fondly. He brought his hand to his heart, his giggle bending him backward and then forward like a trapeze artist on a tightrope. For the next month, my dad relished in telling his colleagues, our neighbors, his family--anyone really--that his son thought that he'd once been a professional baseball player, a peer of one of the greatest power hitters of all time. I just couldn't understand why it was so funny.
"Your father's a short, Lebanese lawyer, Mikey," my mom counseled. "Someday, you'll understand."
~
This week, I graduated from physical therapy and from neuro therapy. I have another wonderful month of occupational therapy to go.
But among the things I can do now, albeit not as well as Mike Schmidt once did, is catch and throw a baseball. I just can't do it well. Not yet.
What I'd give to have a catch with my father again. How lucky I am that Elijah and I have that to look forward to.
I think he'll know better than I did, though, that his old man never played pro ball.
But I hope he'll build a love for this game, someday, and remember who most loved watching him play.
