We aren't a baseball family. At least that's what we thought.
Daddy grew up on a cattle ranch in rural Montana, too far from the nearest small town to be shuttled back and forth during the summer to play on the pee-wee team. Besides, there were cattle to work and there was hay to put up, not to mention fences to fix.
I grew up on a small farm in rural Montana, and I had no desire to play baseball. Why would I want to play a sport where someone (who is usually much bigger than me) throws a ball as hard as he can straight at me, over and over again while I frantically swing a stick and try to hit the silly thing? Though, I do remember a hilarious ball game we had one summer with family and friends in our freshly mown hay-field. It was men against women, and to level the playing field a bit, the men had to run backward and bat left-handed. I think they won anyway.
Even though we have no history with the sport, to speak of, we do know the basics. We know that there are three bases, home plate, a pitcher, catcher, and outfielders. But, we couldn't tell you who's in the Hall of Fame, who won the World Series last, or how much a trading card with so-and-so on it is worth.
Like I said, we aren't a baseball family. At least that's what we thought.
Until last week. Until t-ball camp. Until we saw this guy in t-ball camp.
Goodness gracious, sakes alive. Just watching him out there made me jump to my feet, hollering and cheering for our boy as my fingers eagerly curled through the chain link fence. With a helmet two sizes too big, and shoes two sizes too small, and determination just right, he was our boy, and he was playing baseball.
It was enough to make us a baseball family.
