I‘ve seen the highs and lows of baseball fever. During spring training, someone at work mentioned the upcoming season, and we realized that our kids would be playing each other in the same Little League. Soon after, my coworkers began bragging about their kids and bantering around some challenges.
　　I felt my stomach pitch (no pun intended) when I heard this. Last year, in T-ball, my son was less than athletically enthused. Don‘t get me wrong, he‘s coordinated. But, typically, when the other kids were paying attention to the baseball game, my son was throwing grass up in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth.
　　So, during the practice season, I had decided I wouldn‘t put pressure on my son or myself this year by trying to raise a super baseball player at home. And I wouldn‘t engage in the bragging and one-upmanship at work. But then, when I arrived for the first game, I saw John in marketing giving his son last-minute pointers. Suddenly, in a moment of insecurity, I, too, turned to my boy and whispered some game-playing advice: "Son, watch out for doggie doo-doo on the grass."
　　During the seventh inning, John wandered over to our side and shook my hand. "Great game, huh?" he said.
　　I nodded.
　　"Too bad about your son falling down on his way to third base, though," he continued. "Is he alright?"
　　"He‘s okay," I explained, my face turning red. "His stomach is bothering him - he had a big dinner."
　　"Really? I thought maybe he accidentally ate a rotten weed, or some bad thatch."
　　I knew word of that would spread through the office quickly.
　　"I don‘t want to go to work anymore," I told my wife.
　　"If you really want to do something," she said, "you should take Alasdair out to the park this weekend and practice."
　　I felt bad for expecting more from my son than he wished to give, but I took her advice nonetheless. I grabbed my son‘s hand and we walked around the infield. I pointed out the excitement of the game. We talked about each position. I explained how grass will give him worms.
　　Then, for the next several weeks, my son actually showed an interest in the game.
　　Once, he even caught the game-ending fly ball. As I stood and watched his teammates congratulate him, I silently patted myself on the back for encouraging him to try harder.
　　The next day, I even joined in the banter around the water cooler at work. It was fun bragging about my kid‘s final out. I had reached the inner circle. I felt a part of something greater than myself.
　　High on the moment, I even predicted that, later that evening, my son‘s team would "whoop" the team John‘s kid was on.
　　At the ballpark, I walked confidently over to John on the bleachers. "Great game," I remarked.
　　"You bet," he replied.
　　"Yep, I think we are going to win this one," I boasted, just as a fly ball landed two feet behind my son, who was hunched over on the grass spitting out a ladybug.
　　"See you at work tomorrow," John exclaimed as he rushed down to congratulate his son for hitting the game-winning home run.
　　My glory days as a sports dad were short-lived, but I‘ll always remember them fondly. (Sigh.)
　　
　　Reprinted by permission of Ken Swarner (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Sports Fan‘s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark & Chrissy Donnelly and Jim Tunney. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.