Play ball

As my boy steps to the crooked plate and looks out over the menacing deck in left field, he twirls the bat around and adjusts his imaginary batting gloves. He looks the part of a mini-Big Leaguer and he even mimics the intense expression of a hitter in the zone.

The pitch, just a bit low according to the batter/umpire. "That slider just missed," with a little extra emphasis on just. He needs time to get his sign and take a few more practice cuts before stepping in to face my fastball.

He plays so much there is a slightly beaten down path to first base in our backyard. The four dirt patches surrounding each base bring me great joy. Never thought dirt could be such a happy sight, especially in my well manicured yard.

Every dad should be so lucky to have worn out grass resembling a perfectly imperfect baseball diamond in the yard. Paired with a couple dirt spots under the swings these are the markings of a summer well spent.

Kavaun's field is kind of a mix between Fenway Park and the old Tiger Stadium. Like Fenway, play is tight along the foul lines and the left field porch homerun is an effortless stroke with even the slightest breeze. Like Tiger Stadium with the flag pole in centerfield, our backyard park includes a swing set in play with trees hanging over a right field homerun.

Daily, his games are played out. Sometimes with friends and neighbors. Sometimes alone. Always for fun. Play by play announcing includes calls recognizing our favorite Tigers like Iglesias, Kinsler and Cabrera and some made-up names that resemble stars - like "Machado" for Mustakous or any number of other visiting team player names that have not been ingrained in his memory like our Tigers.

I will pitch and once in a while hit, but I will not be the ump too often. I play by his rules and try to enjoy is version of the games. His version typically involves him winning, swiping extra bases and going to the replay booth to have his calls confirmed.

Baseball has a special way of connecting generations and this summer has brought me closer to my son. I would like to think that if it weren't baseball it would surely be something else to bring us together, but baseball is so natural and easy for me and he has a pure love for the game at this age. We are speaking the same language and loving the same team. We ride the roller-coaster that is a 162-game season and we talk about things like sacrifice bunts, getting out of jams and not arguing balls and strikes. Anguishing losses make him cry and thrilling victories end in our fives and hugs.

This is true love.

We have attended a couple minor league games and a few Tigers games and his observation of the actual game leads to a lot of questions and also a lot of silent time shared in the moment. I just watch him enjoy something I enjoy. He is the only 6 year old that I have to talk into getting treats or going to the Team Store because he does not want to miss the action. Cracks me up.

I relive my childhood regularly and the innocence of lost time in the summer keeps me young.



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