Play Ball

"Play ball!"

Two words that spark a young boy's fancy, causing his imagination to soar to heights of which only youth can conceive.

The snows finally gave way to the brown, soon-to-be-dust covered local baseball field where me and my friends played after school.  Save for a few other summer pursuits, we spent most of our waking hours hitting, running and catching that frayed ball ... and dreamed.

Dad enlisted in the Air Force, so we moved a lot, mostly to small Air Force stations around the country.  I spent the third grade in three different states from Mississippi to Maine, and finally to Michigan, where we stayed for four years.

Four years--long enough for a boy like me to put down roots.  After all, this would be a third of my life.  Roots and friends.  Chad, my best friend, was a lanky kid who played first base and wanted to be like Lou Gehrig.  We both loved the Yankees, something tantamount ro treason in the land of the Detroit Tigers; Spike, a shortstop with an arm like a rifle; Mikey, who ranged around the outfield like a cowboy; and even Rick, my younger brother, who I discovered wasn't bad after all.  We even had a girl in our midst, playing a game not fashionable for young ladies.  We reasoned Pat could easily be a boy's name too.

There were others, of course ... eight in all, enough to play some pretty intense pick-up games.  That we did on a corner lot right next to our house.  Chick told me some house had burned down about four years before we moved to town, and they just cleared the lot.  Worked for me.  We literally wore a baseline in the grass worthy of any big league field.

Dad had been hinting of something very special for my twelfth birthday.  To the chagrin of my buds, my mind strayed from baseball as that day approached.  My imagination conjured all sorts of scenarios--a new bike, a trip to Grandma's in New York, or even no chores for the rest of the month.  Finally, Dad announced he had tickets to a Detroit Tigers ballgame.  My friends were beside themselves--only one of them had ever seen a major league game.

The genius of Dad's gift dawned on me.  Being from Maine, Dad's team was the Red Sox.  I got to see a major league game and he got to see the Sox in action.

It's funny what stays with you over the years.  The smell of fresh roasted peanuts still takes me back to that day when the Red Sox swept a double-header from the Tigers.  More than that, I got to see a side of my dad that I'd never seen before.  He was a kid again, as we celebrated my coming of age together.

But one in a life of memories and expectations, this birthday catalyzed my imagination.  Dad and I live on forever in my pen.

Word Count:  496 words