Illustration by C.F. Payne
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Striking Out With My Son
By Frank Gannon, September & October 2005
I’m crazy about the ol’ ball game. But can I turn my only child into a fan?
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In the complex morass that is America 2005, one thing anchors my sanity: the
Philadelphia Phillies. From early spring to early autumn, I begin each day the
same way—studying the box score, drinking in the vital information. The
Phils win? I am a happy man. They lose? I'm adrift. Annoyed. Occasionally
morose.
This is, I grant you, a bit ill. And as with any character flaw, I blame my
mother. Mom was born in Ireland and saw her first game in 1938, at age 30, not
long after she and my dad moved to Philly. After a few games at old Shibe Park,
she became a Phils fanatic, sermonizing on the need for a left-handed setup man
and a real second-in-the-batting-order guy who could hit and run.
I shared Mom's passion. By the time I was 12, I could dissect the team
as if it were an enormous biology project. I knew Clay Dalrymple's batting
average (career-best .276 in 1962). I knew Robin Roberts's earned run
average (3.41 over 19 seasons). So when I became a dad, moving to Georgia and
raising a son, I assumed my boy would continue the family tradition. I expected
him to cram his brain with runs-batted-in totals and the all-important
"RISP" (batting average with runners in scoring position). But even
though Frank played organized ball as a kid—and he was pretty good, I
might add—he never followed the game. No shoeboxes jammed with baseball
cards, no posters on his walls. He's 17 now, and couldn't name a
Phillie if the keys to a Harley were at stake.
I've tried to get him excited. "Goin' over the Phillies'
roster," I said back in the spring, sitting on the couch. "This is
going to be a big year."
"Ahh," he said, unsuccessfully feigning interest. He started
playing a video game in which he wanders through an empty building shooting
people. Surely this is not as interesting as the Phils. One day he was busy
killing people when I got an idea. We'd catch a game together! Dad and
Junior at the ol' ballpark. We'd eat hot dogs. We'd talk ball. What
could be more American?
Frank was skeptical. He had school things to do. He'd actually rather do
homework than go to a game. But in the name of Mike Schmidt (548 career home
runs) and all that's sacred, I had to educate him in the necessities of
life. So I pretend his skepticism is enthusiasm and buy two seats for a game in
Atlanta.
It's Field of Dreams time: father, son, baseball. Including the
drive, this is the longest time—about five hours—we've spent
alone together in years. I imagine our father-son disconnect is not unusual in
modern America, where meals are ordered and eaten faster than it used to take
to figure out what to eat. This is a rare opportunity, I think. I will savor
it.
"So why aren't you into baseball?" I ask. He looks out the
side window. "It's all about money," he says. "Why should I
care what happens to a bunch of millionaires playing a kids'
game?"
I have no answer to this. I nod and turn up the pregame show. Fortunately we
soon arrive at Turner Field, where the Braves will play the San Diego Padres.
The park is relatively new but looks relatively old, thanks to the retro design
with its exposed girders holding up the bleachers. It feels like 1955, except a
hot dog and a beer cost $10.
The game itself is dull. Like watching a congressman drone on C-SPAN. This
spectacle of tedium was not going to turn my son into a fan. If it went to
extra innings, it might turn me into a nonfan. We had hot dogs. I said the hot
dogs always taste best at a ball game. I really built up this hot dog, but the
bun was soggy, the dog cold.
After seven innings of almost painfully boring baseball, something finally
happened. Two Padres were on base, no outs. The batter hit a ground ball to the
Braves' third baseman. He stepped on the bag, then threw to the Braves'
second baseman, who tagged second and threw to first. Triple play! In
compliance with the day's bleak theme, I didn't actually see it because
a very loud beer salesman had obscured my vision. But then I realized: my son
was applauding. He was smiling. We'd just shared a baseball moment. Yes,
yes—my son will never be a sports fan. He'll never memorize Steve
Carlton's strikeout total (4,136). But with that one ground ball, Frank
caught a tiny glimpse of why I love the game, despite the many flaws of its
many millionaires. The Phils were once a chain between my mom and me. My son
and I never had that chain, but maybe, maybe, we started forming one. Suddenly
the hot dog tasted a little bit better.
Frank Gannon has also written for the magazine about a married Catholic
priest in Georgia and about George
Foreman.
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