Joy in Mudville
Greetings, all.
I don’t follow baseball closely; never have. I seem to write about it a lot, though. I’m not sure what that means, exactly. I never played organized baseball, but I played most every summer day with my neighborhood friends when I was a child. It was funner, somehow, than the “all children as an organized minor league for professionals” vibe I get from my children’s baseball league. They don’t send home do-it-yourself steroid kits for the grade schoolers yet, and for that I am grateful. And so our older boy participates, as will his brother in his turn. I trust he’ll get what he can from it, be it fun or something as simple as learning to show up somewhere and cooperate with strangers.
I spent the afternoon on Saturday inside a gym watching him try out for the teams with his brethren, and it never occurred to me to bring a newspaper; I might have brought one to pass the time to a professional ballgame, but not to a series of drills performed by rail thin grade schoolers with jack-o-lantern smiles. As the cowboy narrator in “The Big Lebowski” says, it was just “so durn innerestin’.”
I wrote about his adventures last year; perhaps you’d be interested in them this year too:
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