My Favorite Pastime

That's me up there, in 2009 before the last baseball game of my illustrious career. A teammate took that shot of me prior to our game in Cooperstown, aka the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. I played in one game of a tournament on the same field where they filmed parts of "A League of Their Own." Known as Doubleday Field, the diamond was built in 1920 and has hosted games of all sorts, including some regular season Major League exhibition matches, throughout the years. I felt honored to play on the field, but bummed because my appearance there marked the end of a five-year period where I returned to hardball after 25 years away from my favorite sport.

I stopped playing because it just wasn't right for me to disappear for a summer's worth of Sundays when I had two young kids. When I returned to the game at age 40, my son, Owen, was three. Two years later, my daughter was born. After five years, I considered joining another league that played weeknights, but opted out after Owen decided he wanted to play Little League. I coached his team and didn't know if I could commit to night baseball while overseeing his team.

Prior to my five-year return to America's national pastime, I played softball for a few years with my wife, Beth, and her father, Rich. I really liked playing, but as I crept toward 40, I harkened back to my youth, and my favorite game: baseball. I played Little League and Babe Ruth for seven years, and sandlot baseball seemingly from birth until I went away to college. I was never much of a hitter, but I prided myself on my defense.

I made two All-Star teams, one in Little League and one in Babe Ruth. I have no problem telling you that the reason I made the Babe Ruth team was because my best friend's father coached the team.

All of this is a long way of telling you, my faithful follower(s?) that last night I got back on a softball field for the first time in more than a decade.

Recruited by a neighbor, I joined a team with the unfortunate name of Awesomesauce. The only time on a field I had before the game was a brief batting practice last weekend with two neighbors and one other teammate. Felt good to be out there, which made me excited for a game.

I had no idea how much I would play, or what position. Mostly, I thought about not hurting myself. Every season I played hardball I managed to tweak something: a hamstring, a quad, a groin. One year I got spiked and hobbled around for a few games afterward.

I went to the gym yesterday morning, focused on stretching, a bit of cardio and not too much strength work. And of course, I managed to tweak my left adductor muscle doing an exercise I should have been smart enough to avoid.

Last night was a cold one for softball, but I was happy to be at Hoyt Field in Cambridge, a diamond I never knew existed although it's only 15 minutes from home. My teammates are all nice, and the game started well with us scoring a bunch of runs. I knocked in a run with a single in my first at-bat. I made a few plays at shortstop, and knocked down a ball that prevented a run from scoring (although that run and a few others scored later in the inning).

Trouble came in my second time at the plate. I hit a grounder to third and had to hustle down the line. About halfway down the base path that tweaked muscle announced to me that I was perhaps a fool to be doing what I was doing. I limped across the bag a second after the ball hit the first baseman's mitt.

I played in the field again, and had one more at-bat, during which I hobbled around the bases and managed to score a run. By that time, however, our team was down by quite a few. We lost to a team with a lot of big hitters.

I'm bummed about the injury, but hoping I can nurse it along with stretching, Advil, whiskey and taking myself out of the action a bit more. I had surgery two years ago to clean out torn cartilage in my left hip. My hip/lower back/upper leg nexus are weak and aren't gonna get any better. My right hip has begun to feel sore lately. If I can't play more than a few games this season, that'll be it for me.

It sucks that the older we get, the harder we have to work to do something as simple and fun as play softball. Last night I watched balls fly over my head, deep into left field, and thought, "Man, five years ago I could've run that ball down." My father-in-law played softball well into his 60s, and many of the guys from my hardball team are still chugging along well into their 50s and 60s, so hope is alive in them.

I know, I know. Sounds like I'm making too much of an injury. But it's a nagging one that has plagued me off and on for quite some time, and there's nothing I can do to make it better. Rest, stretch, baby it a bit. Maybe look into hip replacement or bionic adductor surgery....

"Dear Mr. Fred Lynn"

Ah, 5th grade! King of the Hill. Top of the Heap. A Number One. Life was good at Latimer Lane School in Simsbury, CT. I had a cool teacher, Mr. Cashman who, along with the other 5th grade teacher, Mr. Stepanian, used to play kick ball with us at recess. We had a "bubble hockey" table in the classroom, a bunch of us boys formed an informal club that, all these years later, I can't recall if it revolved around yo-yo's or cool erasers on the ends of our pencils. Or maybe both. I discovered that it was OK to like girls. I acquired the nickname Wiggy. We got to listen to some kid's 45 record of "Brass Bonanza," aka the New England Whalers fight song, which on the B-side had an epic fight between the Whalers and the Minnesota Fighting Saints called by broadcaster Bob Neumeier.

Outside of school, I played Little League, on the Yankees. I was (and remain) a huge Red Sox fan, so I wasn't initially too excited to play on the namesake of my team's hated rivals. But all that really mattered was playing my favorite sport with so many of my friends. I also played baseball with my older brother, Steve, and my best friend, Pat, and his brothers. We played on the school's field, and used a tennis ball instead of a hardball, so none of us younger kids would get hurt when the older guys batted. I loved to play shortstop, imagining that I was Rick Burleson, aka Rooster, my favorite Sox player.

At some point during the 1975/76 school year, we were given an assignment to write a letter to somebody famous and request a signature or token of some sort. Although Burleson was my favorite Red Sox, I chose to write to Fred Lynn, who in 1975 became the first player to win the Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards in the same season, as center fielder for the Sox.

I don't recall how we obtained addresses for the people we wished to contact. These days, of course, it's easy to look up people and organizations online. Through some sort of educational sorcery, the teachers and librarians accessed the information. Wasn't hard to find the Red Sox front office address, I'm sure.

Let's pretend I have a copy of the letter that I mailed to Fred Lynn....

Dear Mr. Fred Lynn:

My name is Dave Brigham. I'm a 5th grader at Latimer Lane School in Simsbury, Connecticut. I have loved the Red Sox since I was born, because my brother and father like them. I play second base in Little League on the Yankees, but it's OK, because we're not very good. I watch your games whenever I can, which isn't often enough, because although cable TV has been around since the late 1940's, I have never heard of it and won't know of its glories and magnificence until the early '80s. In the meantime, I catch the occasional game on Channel 38, a UHF channel out of Boston that, through the miracle of science, arrives on my parents' black-and-white TV set in our rec room. But I digress.

A lot of times I listen to Sox games with my dad and/or brother, either at home or in the car as we travel around town or to such exotic vacation destinations as Cape Cod, New Hampshire's Flume Gorge and some YMCA camp in Torrington, CT, where some of my family got sick. Throw-up sick. Funny side story: once while we were at a swimming hole (do they have swimming holes where you're from?) in my town, my brother asked my dad if he could have the car keys so he could turn on the car radio and get the score of the Sox game. He turned the key to the right spot on the steering column and turned on the game, but somehow managed to bump the shifter into "neutral" and the car started rolling. Here's the funny part: I don't remember how this story ends, but everybody lives.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, can I have an autographed picture? You're awesome, you won the Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards. Sure, you and your teammates lost in one of the greatest World Series of all time, and taught me my first lesson in professional sports heartbreak, a lesson that I have a feeling I will learn again in 1978, 1986 and 2003, although I suspect at least two of those years won't be your fault.

So whatta ya say, Freddy Boy?

Sincerely,

Dave Brigham

I waited approximately 8,000 years for a reply from the Great Mister Lynn. In the meantime, I played hockey in the classroom, flag football outside (we had a league -- a LEAGUE! -- and I was on the champion Rams, which was QB'd by my buddy Tyler Brown), day-dreamed about Cathy Ruddy and found myself wondering whether the United States Bicentennial celebration in July would live up to the hype. I mean, think about it? How do you honor 200 years of revolution, industry, slavery, repugnant race relations, the likes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Henry Ford, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the Greatest Generation, George Carlin, the guy who invented the beer ball and so many other things?

Finally, the day arrived! The postman strutted into Mr. Cashman's classroom like he owned the place, and started flinging envelopes at kids' heads and yelling, "Mail, suckah!"

I ripped open the delivery, wondering how Mr. Fred Lynn had managed to fit a glossy 8x11, signed photo of his famous face into such a small envelope. I quickly scanned the boilerplate mumbo-jumbo typed neatly on Red Sox letterhead.

Dear [Insert fan name here]:

Thank you for your correspondence.

Sincerely, [Insert name of sports organization].

At least there was a picture...of the whole team. With Fred Lynn's autograph...stamped on the lower right corner.

Despite being let down somewhat, I knew that Mr. Fred Lynn surely hand-picked the team photo -- heck, maybe he even TOOK the picture -- and no doubt would have signed it by hand if he wasn't concerned with injuring his throwing arm, but surely he flipped open the stamp pad, grasped the autograph stamp firmly in his left hand, firmly pressed it into the ink and brought it down with authority on the picture that was destined to travel the Mass. Pike from Boston all the way to my school in little old Simsbury, CT.

So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.

Swing, Batter!

I love spring, especially when it's accompanied by a decent Red Sox team.

Baseball is my favorite sport. I played Little League and Babe Ruth as a kid, as well as countless pick-up games with my older brother and anywhere from one to six of the Keegan brothers who were our best friends growing up. The boys ranged in age from 3 years younger than me to 10 or 12 years older.

On the cusp of turning 40, I decided to try playing again, after 25 years away. I tried out for an over-40 league in Boston, got picked for a team based out of Quincy, and for the next five years had a great time reliving my youth. Sure, I got hurt a few times, and my team wasn't that good, but I had a blast.

I left baseball behind when my son, Owen, decided he might want to try Little League. He and I had been playing quite a bit of front-yard whiffle ball at that point, and I told him he should make the move to baseball.

He was unsure, though, until I told him I would help coach his team. So, in the spring of 2010, he made his debut on the diamond, and I made my debut behind the bench.

I co-coached with a great guy named Bruce, and between the two of us, along with a handful of helpful dads, we had a fun and somewhat productive season. I couldn't have been happier that Owen was playing alongside some of his friends. It just felt good to be out there on the field, teaching the game to a new generation.

Owen skipped summer ball that year, but played in the fall. There are fewer teams for fall ball, which meant there wasn't one for me to coach. Owen landed on a team helmed by the fathers of two of his classmates. I was more than happy to watch from the sidelines. Owen struggled at the plate, but made some plays in the field and had a good time.

He played again in the spring of 2011, once again coached by other dads. His interest was flagging, but he stuck with it. He and I continued to play whiffle ball in the yard.

He decided to try summer ball that year, and once again I offered that I would help coach. As it turned out, I ended up as head coach, which wasn't the position I was hoping for. I knew Owen's interest was a bit low, so I'd wanted to just help out, in case he decided to drop out.

Two dads whom I'd never met before coached the first two games, because we were on vacation. After that, either one or both of them showed up to help out. Our team was definitely a bit like the Bad News Bears. Some of the kids had never played baseball before; others, like Owen, weren't that into it. And a few enjoyed playing, but would whine and complain if they didn't get to pitch, or play the position they wanted.

We had one girl on our team, and like in "Bad News Bears," she was one of our best players. She only played half the season, however, before going away for the summer.

The season ended on a low note, as I couldn't get Owen to attend the final game with me, and we only had 6 or 7 players.

It's been almost two years since Owen last played baseball. But we have continued, somewhat regularly, to play whiffle ball in our front yard. This season, the dynamics have shifted.

Owen, who's almost 11, has gotten bigger and stronger, and can now pummel most of the pitches I throw. Granted, I'm not bringing my "A game" from the mound, but it's cool to see him getting better.

We've also been joined by a few neighborhood kids, which means that I often get to take a break and hang out with adults in the neighborhood.

A few weeks ago, after playing with a few of these kids, Owen said to me, "We should have a neighborhood whiffle ball game."

"What a great idea!" I told him. So we sent out an Evite, and this Sunday we'll gather on a field at a former school across the street from our neighborhood, and play with kids and grown-ups from our road and nearby streets.

I'll admit that I was bummed when Owen lost interest in playing baseball. I envisioned going to his games, eating snack shack burgers and commiserating with the other parents about how the team was doing. I imagined watching him develop into a better player, having loads of fun and learning about teamwork.

But that didn't happen.

He likes whiffle ball, and watching the Red Sox with me, both of which are great things, especially since I know it won't be long before he moves on from these as well.

I'm just so proud of him for coming up with the idea for a neighborhood game. He worked with me on picking an Evite template, and putting together the invite list. He's got ideas about how the game should go, and he's excited by all of it.

He's growing up, which I find both exciting and frightening (because it means I'm getting old). While baseball didn't turn out to be the sport he wants to play, he has been taking part in a youth track club at the YMCA, so maybe that's something he'll pursue.

No matter which direction he goes, I'll be right behind him. Just one more thing....

...PLAY BALL!

Put Me In, Coach

(I love this picture. This is Owen's fall 2010 team, which I didn't coach, but which I enjoyed watching immensely.)

I love baseball. I loved playing as a kid and a teenager. I loved playing as a grown-up, from age 40 to 44. I love watching the Red Sox. I mourn baseball during the winter.

But I'm conflicted about coaching. In the first draft of this post (yes, I'm a journalist at heart), I went on about how coaching Owen's team this summer has been a bit of a pain in the ass. Then I read through it and thought I was being a bit of a drag, so I set to rewriting it.

Then, came the latest agonizing, I-need-a-beer-immediately-after-this-game kind of a game. And now I realize that if Owen continues to play baseball next spring (he's taking this fall off, after having played three seasons in a row), I won't be coaching. Over are my days of keeping score, telling kids repeatedly to keep their eyes on the batter, and reminding each and every kid that they won't get a hit if they don't swing the bat.

I tip my hat to those with the combination of patience, empathy and discipline to wrangle kids, teach them the basics, encourage them to have fun and let them know that the world won't end if they lose a game or don't get to pitch.

Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed coaching. First of all, my presence behind the bench makes Owen feel more comfortable than if another coach is there. He's a shy kid on the bench, and I think my being there helps him relax a bit. I like being there with him, just as I felt good when my dad helped coach my Little League team.

Secondly, I enjoy watching a kid get his first hit, or make a really great play, or whoop it up when he (or she; we had a girl on the team for the first half of the season) scores a run. I make it a point to congratulate kids on all the good things they do, while also making sure I point out as best I can where they can do better. It's hard to get information into their heads during the game; that's what practices are for, but we don't have those in the summer.

Owen's teammates are good kids. Each one of them had at least a few good moments during this short season (we've played seven games; we've got one more next week). Sure, they lose focus more than I'd like, and they hector (I love that word) me about pitching or catching or batting first more than they should. But they're 7- to 9-year-olds and that's what they do.

And I signed up for this, so I can't complain (too much).

But it sure can be tedious. The kids have a hard time focusing, probably because most of them have been in camp all day. So when they're in the field, I spend a lot of time reminding them to keep their eyes on the batter, or to get their gloves off their heads. Because there aren't any practices, I'm constantly yelling out to them what the situation is, i.e., runner on first, one out, play it to second, tag the base. Two of the kids had never played organized baseball before this summer, so they don't always know what to do, or where to be.

I recruited two dads (Thank God!) from the team to help, so they take part in this, too.

When we're at bat, it's more of the same. Reminding each kid to keep his eye on the ball, swing hard, keep your back foot planted. When they're on base, we spend a lot of time telling them the number of outs, run if it's on the ground and go part way if it's in the air (unless there are two outs).

Yes, I know, this is what coaching is. And for the most part I enjoy it. But this is all done on two feet; there's no sitting down. God, I sound old, don't I? Anyway, the games are slow, because most of these kids (at least on our team) are just learning to pitch, so there are a lot of walks. In an effort to keep the free passes to a minimum, the league instituted a rule by which if a pitcher walks two kids in an inning, and throws four balls to a third kid, that batter is then pitched to by one of his coaches, until he gets a hit or strikes out.

Our penultimate game was a tough one. One of the kids refused to take the field if I didn't let him pitch. I told him I needed him in a different position, and then his mother and I spent about five minutes cajoling him into taking the field so the inning could start.

Later in the game, another kid got very upset because he hadn't pitched in as many games as his brother, and this was their last game, and it wasn't fair, in his view. I assured him he'd done a great job in the field, and that's where I needed him. His father is one of the assistant coaches, and helped smooth things over. Still, I never thought I'd be so exhausted and exasperated during a three-inning Little League game.

We've only got one more game, and Owen's not planning on playing in the fall, so before you know it I'll be complaining that I miss coaching Little League. Because I love baseball.