When as a youngster I first heard of baseball pools in which one would bet upon a total score's last digit, I was appalled. I could not understand how a non-fan could cheer for one team to score and then cheer for the other team to score. It was taking something almost sacred to me and perverting it. I was young and naive and thought all played or watched sports for the reasons I did. Today I am neither. Oh I have not changed my reasons, but I do understand that many other factors are involved.
I see kids that do not want to play forced to play by their parent(s). Sometimes the parent(s) mean well and hope sports will teach valuable life lessons (often those lessons are only a precursor to negatives in life). Many times the parent(s) are living vicariously through the child. Not only is this unfair to the child, he/she is taking a spot that would be better filled by someone that actually wants to be there.
For many it is an ego boost. Sports are the last arena where one is expected to be and it is accepted to be totally impolite, aggressive, and ruthless. Playing or watching often brings out the primordial in us, giving us an adrenaline high, win or lose. Associating with a team allows one to claim their victories and commiserate their losses with other fans. The sense of belonging is a positive part of our identity.
I fondly remember my father buying my first real ball, wooden bat, and glove. (I still have the bat and glove, saved with my most precious mementoes.) I could not wait to get home to use them. I soon learned that for me, one of the most beautiful things in life is the geometry in the way a ground ball predictably bounces, our minds quickly gauging the most opportune time to catch and then throw that ball. Lynn Swan was a wide receiver who had taken ballet lessons. He was fun to watch because that ballet training carried over to his sport. I see that same beauty in a good shortstop. (Maybe many shortstops are not great hitters because the body type that makes them so fluid and graceful is not that of a power hitter). I love watching films of Roberto Clemente - the beauty in his style of play, whether hitting, running, throwing, or fielding may never be matched.
The movie 'Field of Dreams' captures the generational ties that many of us have with baseball. My father was 44 when I was born and had worked hard his entire life. I remember fondly the handful of times we played catch in the yard. We even played a few softball league games together. I don't remember him missing more than a few of my baseball practices in ten years. One of my daughters (I taught her to hit left-handed as my father did) was a starter on a team that went to states, and this year my youngest son dominated his playoff game in both pitching and hitting. I know my father, if alive, would have been there watching them and afterwards would have proudly congratulated them in that understated way of his, "You did alright."
