Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [103]
Our pitcher hit a short fly over second base. The Sacramento centerfielder was playing so deep, he could not cover enough ground in time to make the catch. My son lit out for third. He read the play correctly. Our third base coach did not. He thought the centerfielder would glove the ball on the fly for an out. Instead of sending the runner halfway down the baseline, the coach made him tag up before trying to score.
When the centerfielder picked up the base hit on one hop, Mike had to slow down until the runner in front of him reversed course and headed home. That delay gave the centerfielder all the time he needed to unloose a perfect throw. The ball rushed toward home plate. Mike sprinted down the third base line, moving so fast he could have jumped on the runner in front of him for a piggyback ride. His teammate tried to score standing up. Mike slid under his legs and flipped him into the air before either could touch home. The catcher touched the plate for a force-out on the first runner and tagged Mike for a rally-ending double play.
You will not see that happen at your local ballpark anytime soon.
We eventually lost that game 2–0. Soon as the Sacramento pitcher recorded the final out to win the tournament, his manager dropped to his knees, flung up his arms in triumph, and burst into tears as the entire team crowded around him for a group hug. It was such a passionate, heartwarming reaction, we did not mind losing. Besides, the father-son tournament has never been about the final score. It is about fathers and sons breaking the barriers of familial constraints to roll around in the same dirt, to become best pals in a common cause. We play hard, we play to win, but we do play, and that’s the important thing.
The Blue Adobe Mexican restaurant stands on the corner of Country Club and Main Streets in Mesa, Arizona. My family often drives over from Scottsdale to dine there after a full day of baseball. We stuff ourselves with poblano chiles, puerco adobado, and enchiladas while swilling margaritas late into the night. During a recent outing, my father stood next to his great-grandson Hunter, instructing him to lower his body close to the ground while perching on his tiptoes, the classic stance for an infielder waiting for a hot smash to come his way. It was what his father had taught him and he had taught me and I had taught my sons. Now Hunter joined us, a recipient of the legacy.
My aunt Annabelle sipped a cocktail with Katy and reminded me to slow down my motion the next time I pitched, to make sure my body did not lunge too far out in front of my arm. Mike and Andy walked over from the bar, where they had just watched a baseball game. Andy wrapped his arm around me and said, “We have to keep doing this. Being here with you guys, it’s the greatest time of my life.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Mike added, “you better promise to stay in shape so we can come back and play next year.”
My father sat at our table and told the bartender, José, to sprinkle the infield, a secret phrase that let him know it was time for another round. Andy and Mike talked baseball with Dad. The excitement in their voices made me realize something I had only suspected before: that my sons and I have long shared the same passion for a sport the Lees have played for nearly a century. And I realized something else: in baseball, you cannot go home without first circling the bases. Looking around the room, I saw that the game that had once separated me from my family had finally come full circle to bind us. We had reached home together.
EPILOGUE
Have Glove, Still Travel
It is a November afternoon in 2002. I am playing for the New England Sox in the Roy Hobbs Senior League in Florida. The left-hander on the mound throws in the high eighties and he just broke the bat of the last hitter he faced. I walk to home plate determined to wait him out, to discover how many weapons his arsenal