I love the slow pace of baseball. It's like a meditation to me, nice and calm and quiet. I love all things associated with baseball, the beautifully mowed green grass and the warm summer nights, the crack of the bat and the thwack when a strike hits the mitt, the way the crowds all sing together. The guys are nice to look at, and they high-five and hug and pat each other on the butts. Baseball is joyful and patient. It gives me happy feelings.
Tim is a numbers guy in general, so baseball statistics make sense in his world; numbers allow him a way to talk about his love for the game in specific and nuanced ways, something he has done since he was a little kid. But I just don't care about the numbers. I am not interested that the current batter's batting average is .325. And I really don't care that someone is 5 for 8 when facing left-handed pitchers in away games after a rain delay. Sometimes, after hearing a ridiculously hyper-specific statistic like that, Tim will say: "Now that is cool." But all I heard was "blah blah blah 1 3 7 4 8 3 blah blah blah," so I don't really know if that is cool or not. There should be a statistic for the percentage of an inning that the announcers can remain quiet.
I wish the commentators, instead of statistics, would tell us some back stories about the athletes. That player suffers from anxiety? The pitcher is a cancer survivor? That guy was bullied in elementary school? Talk to me. This batter just got called up from the minors earlier today, and his mom and dad flew in last minute and are in the stands watching their son's major league debut? Hold me. And tell me more. (It is with this insight about me that Tim actually got me to watch some of the NFL draft on TV with him. Because there was a guy with one arm who was hoping to be drafted! I got sucked in. He got drafted!)
The journalist in Tim pays attention to language use, and demands concise explanations. He has tried to teach me the difference between a slider, splitter, and a circle change. I am, however, all set with that. I don't need to know. He asks if I want to know the difference between a 2-seamer and a 4-seamer, and I say: "I love you, but no." Our differences cause us trouble when he goes to get a beer during a Sox game, and someone gets a hit while he's gone, and he asks me what happened. He wants to know whether it was a line drive, a bloop, a bleeder, a rope, or a gapper. All I can tell him is that the ball went up, the ball came down, and the guy is now on first. Are we not happy?
There are some things about my husband's baseball commentary that I do love, and this is what gets me into trouble. I'm sending him mixed messages when I encourage him and laugh and ask him questions. I crack up when he says the pitcher threw "high cheese" or a "nasty slider." I love it when he yells "can of corn!" for an easy pop up, or calls a home run a "tall Jack." I find it hilarious when he makes a very specific comment about a play, and then Jerry Remy immediately echoes the exact same line. My husband could be calling games for the Red Sox but instead he's calling games for me right in our living room. So I have learned to take advantage of all of his fun knowledge, but to frame my questions carefully: "Can you please tell me in 15 words or less what a check swing is?" (It took more than 15 words, and I still don't know.)
Our differences in style bring up some similar issues when I want to talk about Reed, our 11-year old, and how he does in his Little League games. First let me tell you how magical and wonderful Little League is in case you don't know. This is our sixth year watching Reed play, and he has been blessed with the best coaches who teach and challenge the kids while remembering that they are just kids. Little League season means Spring is here at long last. The grass is growing and the burgers are sizzling at the snack shack, and all the parents call all the boys "bud." I love to lean up against the fence with the other parents and watch Reed and his team play.
I learned early on not to say "Reed got a hit!" if the ball was caught. But let me just say that Reed hit that ball hard, and that was a LUCKY catch by the tall kid on the other team. And get this: when Reed hits the ball, and the infielder goes for it but misses, and Reed gets on base, do you realize Tim still says I cannot call that a hit? That is an "error." And I am like: All I know is that my son hit the ball, got on base, and I am having warm and positive feelings about it. GEEZ with the details! Should I have said "The pitcher threw high cheese and Reed blooped it right to the shortstop"?
Tim has worked with Reed on the nuances of batting, his stance and his swing, for years. We have had indications that things were starting to click for Reed, and that because he is much bigger than last year, we are entering new potential territory with him as a hitter. I don't need any commentator to give me Reed's back story; I know how hard he works and how much he dreams about getting a big hit in a game. And I'm his mom, so it's my dream too.
On Saturday, while Tim and I were pressed up against the fence watching his game, Reed hit his first ever home run. We heard the ball hit the bat, and we both watched it go, up and over everyone's heads and right over the fence. We then watched Reed round the bases, and when he came around 3rd, he saw that his whole team had cleared the bench and was waiting for him at home plate. I had feelings! He went on to get two more hits, including the one that brought in the winning run in extra innings. It was the best game of his life, by far.
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And then, of course, wait for it... "His slugging percentage for the season is 1.100."
I asked: "That's good, right?" and Tim confirmed what I, as his mom, already knew.
"Yes. That is very good."
