Lying on the grass, heads perched on palms, the boys gazed through the chain link fence at the field before them. Older versions of themselves stood guard at their positions: adjusting caps, pounding fists to gloves, jawing on Hubba Bubba. An army of nine, ready to protect their turf.
Soon enough my boys would join their ranks. They would be the ones in the big leagues, standing tall as twelve-year-old boys and kings of their diamond domain. Baseball and boyhood are never better than at age twelve, a secret learned only long after one has retired from both.
At twelve, a boy darts from home at the crack of dawn, but just as eagerly runs toward it at the end of the day. The innings between seem to go on forever, for there is no time clock in baseball or in life. When one lives in the moment, the game is unending, for it makes the now eternal. Such is life at twelve.
For now, though, my boys could only watch and wait. At ages eight and four, the big leagues were still a few years off. In the meantime, they were sidelined to the smaller fields. Their dreams, however, were not.
I stood back, not so much watching the game before us as watching them watch the game.
The older of the two gazed intently. I did not need to guess what was going through his mind: the pitch count, the box score, where the ball would likely land, what the pitcher should throw, when the man on first would steal. “I’m gonna play on that field when I get big!”
Baseball is his life, and has been since his tiny fingers first fondled the stitches of a baseball. All his heroes wear numbers on the back of their shirts, and he collects their life stories in countless playing cards strewn about his bedroom. He follows their every move, falling asleep to the radio’s play-by-play each summer eve, and spending his days replicating those moves in the backyard.
The mechanical double-call of dads brought me back to the game:
“WAY TO FIRE, WAY TO FIRE!”
“GOOD EYE, GOOD EYE!”
“LOOK ALIVE, LOOK ALIVE.”
A CRACK cut short the bleacher’s broken record, and a sharp line drive came our way, dropping in the gap in right-center. The centerfielder sprinted toward us, cut the ball off just before it could reach the fence, then turned and hurled it to second.
And a little front row action for the boys, hands still perched on palms.
It was not so obvious what the younger of the two was thinking. While his brother hit fly balls in the backyard, the four-year-old would be cutting that very same yard with his plastic lawn mower. Each hour spent by one at play was matched by the other at work. The lawn mower was followed by a toy weed-whacker, followed in turn by a rake to collect the imaginary clippings. While one collected calluses from a wooden bat, the other did so from shovels, shears, and spades.
What was he thinking? The little one did not keep me guessing long.
“Dad,” he said, jumping up and clutching his fingers around the chain link fence as he peered through.
“I’m gonna mow that field when I get big!”
I laughed, and then smiled.
Two boys. Two dreams.
They’ll make a good team, methinks, each making the other look better.