Don't Worry Dad, I've Got This One... Easy Popup.

For some reason my dad thought it would be a good idea for me to join Little League when I was a kid. There could have been any number of reasons for that, like teaching me how to play baseball, teaching me to be more of a big boy, or maybe teaching me how to take derisive comments from other kids. He was probably 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. I can still hear my father. When the coach threatened to put me in the instructional league if I didn't do better, my dad said, "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.

My dad would have been ninety years old today. We never did talk about my Little League days, and why he insisted I join. I was simply glad to not have had to keep it up after that first horrible season. As it turned out my dad didn't have to worry about whether his second son was going to be interested in baseball. We went to plenty of White Sox games together, and I even took him to a Cubs game once. I like baseball. I like sitting in my big fluffy chair with a diet Coke, or a beer and a hot dog and watching baseball on television... the way god intended for it to be enjoyed.