Piggley Wrigley

Mark and I visit Wrigley Field, with my friend Harry.

I was watching the Cubs get creamed last night, and it jogged memories of my baseball career. For some reason my dad thought it would be a good idea for me to join Little League when I was a kid. I had no interest in it at all, but Dad insisted I join. There could have been any number of reasons for that, like him wanting me to learn how to play baseball, how to be more of a big boy, or how to take derisive comments from other kids without crying. He was right. I did learn the basics of baseball, and I also learned to let those cries of "Here comes the strikeout king", just roll off my back when it was my turn to bat. I hated Little League. When the coach threatened to put me in the instructional league if I didn't do better, I can still hear my dad saying, "You don't want to go to the minors do you Alan? Come on, I know you can do better."  The truth is that I couldn't do better. I was a lousy player, and every time the ball came my way I was terrified that it would hit me in the face. When I was inevitably put into the instructional league, or the minors as my dad called it, I hated it even more and pleaded with my mom to let me quit. Eventually she did let me quit. I think she got tired of delivering me to the park every morning. A park I could have easily ridden my bike to, but she wanted to make sure I got there. She was right. I would have just ridden around town until baseball practice was over. I think that's what the Cubs did this week instead of taking batting practice.