Trent hasn’t played baseball in years, but even when he was still in those youth size jerseys, they started so early. It would still be bitterly cold. We’d wrap up the little siblings and carry blankets and sit in the wind, miserable.
Baseball didn’t use to be like that. Baseball was about the smell of green grass, a warm wind, snow cones and pockets full of concession stand candy.
In the dark ages, when I played softball and neighbor boys pierced the crowds’ hum with higher pitched pings, back then, we played ball when it was warm.
Maybe they play more games now, maybe the crazy (out in MAY) school year forces this issue. But it will never feel right to me. I am trying hard to psyche myself to go and sit, if even in my car, to watch the boy now clad in men’s extra-large everything, play. It all seems too hurried, as if it has come too fast.
Sometimes I wish him on ahead, just a year or two, to that more sane, less argumentative place, a place I honestly see him more clearly than I see his todays. Sometimes, I wish him back, and us some extra pitches, for the fouls we both struck.
So, I will go today, in the cold, and brave the wind and the too earliness of it all.