Greetings and Salutations,
First and foremost, for the legions (i.e. both) of the dedicated blog followers, I personally apologize for a couple of matters: 1) the dearth of posts on my behalf, which has been atrocious, at best. God bless my wife, whose whimsical insight, inspiring tales, and charming photos have assuredly quelled the fervor over updates; 2) the format of this particular post. Typically, I dabble in metaphors, sprinkle in some adorable and, frankly, timeless photographs, and even inject the perspectives of my wonderful children, as near as they can convey them at their present formative stages in development.
But alas, today is a reflective piece, one that I hope does not prompt you to briskly surf over to TMZ.com to ascertain what Charlie Sheen did last night. Instead, twenty-five years from now, I hope that Carter revisits this message and envisions a time he assuredly cannot recall directly. If my ramblings are even semi-effective, he will realize that on Valentine's Day 2011 he gave me the greatest give for which I could have ever hoped.
Alright, here we go...Please bear with me...and make sure your chair is comfortable...
Baseball pundits and contemporary society agree that one of, if not the, greatest baseball move of all time is Field of Dreams. Iowans laud the movie for being set in our fair state, in addition to the oft-repeated "Is this heaven?...No, it's Iowa." line. (P.S. The actual Field of Dreams proper remains for sale. If you have $5.4 million lying around, it may be worth a look. I might suggest checking between the couch cushions for spare change.) In any event, others cite different considerations in praising this film: the excellent storyline, the believable baseball action, the dulcet tones of James Earl Jones, etc. And while I certainly enjoy each of these aspects, I currently appreciate this cinematic work for another reason. Do you happen to recall the end of that movie? Ray Kinsella (a.k.a. Kevin Costner) finally recognizes why he was told to construct a baseball field in the middle of his corn crop - He was given the opportunity to play catch with a younger version of his father, who had previously passed away.
Truthfully, what made Field of Dreams a great movie for me was no different than those initial reasons cited by the majority of individuals. However, this perspective changed entirely after the most impressionable month of my life and a whole lot of reflection.
Growing up, without question the bulk of my time, in some way, shape, or form, was consumed by baseball. Watching the Cubs on WGN, that first game at Wrigley Field with Grandpa Merle in 1988 (We sat down the first base line, Grandpa. I still remember, and have the "autographed" baseball giveaway as a memento.), sorting a rather impressive baseball card collection, refining my prowess at Bases Loaded for Nintendo, and most significantly actually playing the game itself. And while I revealed in the competition, the pitcher versus hitter aspect or the entire team versus team component, nothing, absolutely nothing, topped playing catch with Dad.
Sure, there was a great deal of teaching (both about baseball and life in general) that was embedded in these sessions. But, in retrospect, I cherished these opportunities for the inherent, dedicated attention it afforded me. We talked, he taught, and we grew closer with every toss, just a little time, 5 ounces of cork and twine, and two pieces of rich, Corinthian leather.
Yet, to this very day I wish there were even more occasions when Dad and I could have thrown the ball around. Early in my "baseball career" my Dad's career hindered or prevented such opportunities, a fact that was not lost on him. A reverse trip around the base paths during an organized Tee Ball contest by my younger brother opened my father's eyes and refocused him toward his family. Baseball was not the only reason for this turn of events, but it was certainly an inciting factor.
Our baseball relationship was one of the benefactors of this refocusing. For years we revealed in this common interest. But as the odometer on my Dad's left shoulder continued to trudge on, his physical ability to throw overhand became more difficult. This fact never landed him on the disabled list, and he would be the last to ever tell you that his Sandy Koufax-esque arm was failing. Yet, you could see it on his face with every pained toss. The inevitable result was a decrease in the frequency of our hands-on, joint baseball excursions. However, even so, he rarely, if ever, missed one of my games. In high school for instance, one could always hear him kidding me from his lawnchair, situated just north of the home dugout next to the batting cage. "Is that all the harder you can throw?" even as an opponent whiffed at a Maddux-like fastball (not necessarily lighting up the radar gun but perhaps skillfully placed). Never taken as less than good-natured, it showed me he cared.
Fast forward eight years to July of 2008, the "most impressionable month of my life" I previously referenced. Early in that month I lost my partner for playing catch. While obviously not my initial or primary concern, in the throws of the summer baseball season I realized that I would never again have the chance to make his right palm sting again with a fastball. After a great deal of reflection, and a chance encounter with a cable showing of Field of Dreams, I found the reason why that movie is special for me, a nuance I previously took for granted. Baseball is a sport meant to be shared by a father and a son. Kevin Costner had the opportunity to relive the best part of baseball, a chance that I would no longer possessed.
Well, I guess a chance that I no longer possessed as previously construed. At the end of the very same month, we welcomed Carter Sherman into our lives. It has truly been a fantastic journey since his arrival. We are so proud of him - He is polite, well-behaved (mostly, save for his most recent haircut perhaps), intelligent, and a truly fantastic older brother to Addyson. However, one week ago today on Valentine's Day 2011 he gave his own father a connection to Grandpa Sherman, creating a virtual Living Room of Dreams.
Commercial break...Stretch to prevent a deep vein thrombus from forming, take a bathroom break, file your taxes, take your time. Please continue at your leisure (and discretion).
Alright, please allow me to explain and set the stage. After seeing the better part of the greater metropolitan area stroll through the Emergency Department (which is only a mild exaggeration), I returned home to share Valentine's Day with my family. As a doting husband, I lovingly ordered dinner for my family, a far less dangerous proposition than me cooking something that may result in my own family frequenting the Emergency Department. After this sustenance, topped off with a personalized heart-shaped cookie from Carter and Addyson, my son literally begged me to play baseball.
This is not a novel occurrence for Carter. In fact, most days the boy runs to the door, glove, bat, and ball in hand urning for some baseball action. And I can promise you that there are few things as precious to his mother and I than when he dons his Cubs helmet, artfully turns it backwards, and assumes a fundamentally sound, left-handed batting stance a la Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter.
His independent enthusiasm for the game and my interest in making him happy led us to a rousing affair. Me with my glove and Carter with his bat set out on an experience that I will literally never forget. Standing in our living room, with his mother and sister keenly observing, Carter had an epiphany. While he previously made intermittent contact with the ball, this was more a matter of chance than a refined skill. On this date he seemingly instantly grasped the nuance of carefully watching the ball as it approached his bat. The ensuing results were beautiful. Carter lined a shot down the right field line, an easy double with Carter's speed (once he learns where second base is situated, of course.), blazing fast wheels I can verify were not paternally inherited.
He proceeded to replicated his success countless times over, peppering balls throughout our humble abode. Before long, we had an America's Funniest Home Videos moment with me doubled-over and speaking a couple of octaves higher and Mama serving as a casualty with a couple of lower extremity contusions secondary to some brisk follow through. Pride abound after this excursion. It was readily apparent on his mother's face, and I can assure you I was smiling from ear to ear. This was not due to the fact that I thought Carter is or will ever be a baseball prodigy. There were no illusions of grandeur that he was on the fast track to the Majors. No, my pride was secondary to the look of unbridled joy on my son's face. Literally, after every single rope off his bat, Carter would say, "I hit it! I hit it!". This was followed by first a high five for Mama and then a trip to the mound, where Papa was perched. I was treated to a crisp high five as well and the customary fist bump. Then, it was back to the batter's box for some more action. I wished that moment would never end, and I look forward to years of such pleasure to come.
Carter, when you are old enough to read this (and perhaps understand its "depth"), I wish to thank you. Your excitement, passion, and pure pleasure, in this case manifest as a batting practice display that rivals the likes of Ken Griffey, Jr. and has superagent Scott Boras calling the house phone seeking to represent you, was the best gift you could have imparted to me. Baseball will always be special to me not because of the triumphs and tribulations that I have experienced on the diamond, but instead because of the bond it helped created between Grandpa Sherman and I. We shared so much more, but baseball truly had a special place in our relationship, one that brought us closer and always served as fodder for conversation. Perhaps this open letter has adequately conveyed that fact. Or even better, perhaps everyday I have put this message into practice. As one of the final lines in Field of Dreams, anytime I hear you say, "Hey Dad, wanna have a catch?", I will be there for you. Regardless of the situation, I will always be there for you. My father taught me the importance of that sentiment.
In closing, and all honesty, Carter, your mother and I hope that baseball always makes you as happy as you were on Valentine's Day 2011. But more importantly we hope that life makes you that happy. If so, we have truly been successful in serving as your parents. Thank you, Carter, and Happy Valentine's Day, pal.
Love,
Papa
As a bonus, for those of you who suffered through that long tale, below is some home footage of Carter in action. He understands the inherent value of defense in addition to his aforementioned offensive prowess. Not too shabby for a lad only 30 1/2 months into existence...
