Big Papi

This weekend was Jackson's first day of rookie league baseball practice. I basically had to drag him there.

That will probably make a lot of parents cringe, and there are several of us that had parents that were rabid sports fans, that basically did the same thing, forcing their boys to play sports they had an interest in.

I get it. I really do.

But instinct is telling me to make him play.

Here's my thinking. My son is a negative thinker. I have to work on that, but his answer to almost any question is the opposite of what he thinks you want him to say. Unless he is wholeheartedly convinced that the upcoming activity is one that he will love more than a hot steaming stack of pancakes, he will refuse to do it. And nine times out of ten, when he does it, he loves it.

It doesn't always work that way, but if you were the kind that plays life by the odds...

The first time I hit a home run, it took me totally by surprise. I wore the green uniform of the Jaguars, a fifth grade little league team in Akron, Ohio. Everyone else had been playing since they were in tee-ball, but this was my first year. I didn't realize that when the ball goes into the deep weeds, it was an automatic home run. As I rounded third base, the base coach laughed himself to coughing as I booked by at top speed, he trying to tell me to slow down.

I shared the home run title with Mark McKenzie.

There might be better feelings in the world, but if I had to choose one to hold on to, that might be the one. Your team meets you at home plate, and suddenly, where you were just one of the guys, for a while, you are the only guy, the hero of the moment.

I've hit others since, and of course now I've learned to trot, and treat it like another day at the office, but it still feels great.

I can't explain that to my son. But I know in my heart that when he takes that first stroll around the bases, he will know. He might not thank me right then, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he will remember the time that dad dragged him to practice.

Or not.

That's the gamble.

So during practice, Jackson, like all the players, filled out a questionnaire, determining how much he knew about the game.

Oops. I watch football, and can't really be bothered with watching baseball, though it's my favorite sport to play. I felt like I had failed him in a small way.

Name: Jackson
Nickname: Dominick (I scratched this out and wrote: Jax)
Thing you like least about baseball: Red Sox
Favorite baseball team: Red Sox
Favorite baseball player: Tom Brady

He heard me telling his mother about this and said defensively, "Well I don't know anything about baseball!"

Great, I was making fun of my son. "No, Jackson," I said, "I thought it was really cute."

He seemed mollified by this. I continued, "It's my fault because I've never once even watched a game with you."

I turned on the TV, and wouldn't you know that the Red Sox were playing the Yankees. Perfect.

I paused the TiVo when they showed the line up and explained everything that we saw. He snuggled next to me on the couch, and I was surprised to find that he was getting into it. Not to mention that, being in first grade, he is able to read progressively harder words as the year goes by.

"What does DH mean?"

"Designated Hitter." I looked at the player name playing DH, and it was none other than David Ortiz. "Now if you want to have a favorite player, you could do a lot worse than Big Papi. He is always smacking homers in clutch situations."

And then, as if by divine intervention, Big Papi crushed the ball over the right field fence, putting the Sox ahead, where they would stay for the rest of the game.

Yesterday he told me that he wants to see a game, and that maybe we could bring our mits, catch a ball, and have Big Papi sign it.