It took a while longer to get to the little one.
By the time Big Guy was 4, I knew he was destined to be a baseball fan. That was the summer when he opted to …

You remember the sweet little baby he used to be, and you wonder how it all went sideways.
You tried to raise him right – before he was born you ordered a onsie from your favorite …

Big Guy’s latest trophy is by far his most impressive, though he didn’t grasp that right away. He did notice that it’s the biggest award in a collection that already borders on obscenely large, but …

If there’s an app on my phone Big Guy is going to play with it – especially since I’ve taken the games off my geriatric-by-today’s standards Blackberry so I could install Major League Baseball At …

He was the greatest handler of egos ever.
He was an innovator whose weird ways changed his profession.
He was the poster child for upper management ineptitude.
Everything I ever needed to know about management I learned from …

It was 2002. That’s not so long ago considering that my beloved Reds haven’t made it since 1990, but it terms of life-changing events the eight years since San Francisco has been in the fall …

There are teams, and then there are teams.
I grew up a Cincinnati fan, so the Big Red Machine era, of course, is one of my favorites in sports. But the 1990 Reds, who swept the …

Boots’ baseball season apparently has ended, not with a homerun trot or a pizza party, but curled up in a fetal position in the floorboard of a car.
I say “apparently,” because with more than half …

Glove: Check.
Bat: Check.
Water bottle: Check.
Batting helmet: Uh, Mom, I don’t know where it is.
Didn’t I tell you to put all your baseball stuff in your bag?
The helmet won’t fit in my bag, Big Guy retorted.
Dang …

It’s perfectly understandable when people try to assign blame in the event of accidents – in fact, doing so is even official policy for some agencies.
If I were the parent of a beautiful 16-year-old who …

When last we visited a major league ballpark, Big Guy was barely 1. He didn’t need a ticket, and he didn’t cost us at the concession stand. He did upset the guys behind us when …

Funny how baseball got serious about trying to verify Latin American player’s ages when the players started coming out ahead.
And funny how the solution – genetic testings – would again exploit teen-agers not literate in …

It invaded our home Saturday, eight inches of dust-gathering fragility added to the growing shrine to Big Guy’s athletic prowess.
Prowess? What prowess, beyond showing up Saturday mornings after I dynamite his fanny out of bed?
The …

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to baseball is purely coincidental.
If peewee soccer players are bees swarming after the ball, then a peewee baseball team is a flock of ducks. Very hungry ducks, tripping over each other in …

He’s not going to wear a batting helmet – it’s silly.
He’s not going to hit off a tee – that’s for 2-year-olds.
He’s not going to put his hands closer together on the bat because that’s …

I hate it when I fall in love with a baseball team.
There are numbers and names to learn, stats to memorize, favorites to pick. The last part is easy: Unless the shortstop’s a total schmuck, …

Weather warm enough that we shed our jackets on the way home from school last week inspired  Big Guy to ask a version of the question flitting through my mind:
“How long until they’re playing baseball …

I got a telemarketing call tonight I’m sorry I missed. I might even return it.
It was from the local Single A baseball team and immediately made me forget I’ve been shivering most of the day …

Ran into a recently retired co-worker friend Friday at the ballpark — literally.
It was during the first Little Guy escape of the night. He had bolted from our seats one row back from the field …

I’d promised the guys all summer we’d go to another baseball game. I even circled dates on schedule, intending to hit one a month. But days slipped into weeks that slipped into months, and we hadn’t made it back.

My procrastination was rooted in a desire to avoid the scene of the crime. I spent most of our last visit with the guys, walking and wailing around the concourse, instead of watching Randy Johnson.

Still, a promise is a promise, so when Big Guy asked late last week when we were going to see Wally, the Modesto Nuts mascot, again, I bought tickets and hoped for the best.

The best turned out better than I’d hoped. Tonight, I found my baseball buddy.

I’ve always had people who

The chance to watch a major leaguer in Modesto sent my fingers racing ahead my good sense. Buyer’s remorse came immediately after I bought tickets for Sunday’s Nuts game, though.

A 1 p.m. start that would disrupt Little Guy’s nap. An Easter Day game with kids jacked on sugar. Endless chasing of small people when I’d rather plop my butt in a seat and enjoy a game.

But I really wanted to see Randy Johnson, so my inner Pollyanna popped up. The last game we’d gone to featured minimal fussing and few hikes around the concourse. Maybe it would work.

I list self-delusion under “other skills” on my resume.

It was a great two innings. Little Guy sat patiently, and Big Guy was mesmerized by just about everything. The grass, the new scoreboard, Wally and Al. Mostly Wally, as long as he kept his distance. If the mascot came close, Big Guy would Velcro himself to me.

But, then: “Daddy, I’m hungry.” Never mind that we’d asked Big Guy 3,986 times before the game if he wanted to eat. Dad trudged off, hoping to buy a few innings’ peace. Meanwhile, storm clouds formed around Little Guy. Squirms turned into kicks, whimpers became wails. A kind couple across the aisle gave us a lollipop, which mollified him until the candy was gone. Dad and Big Guy returned, and I bolted.

That’s when the world decided to hate me.