Baseball '05: Hits, Mitts, and Ficks
It's the most wonderful time of the year.
With those horsehides a-flyin' and Cubs fans all cryin'
"Just wait 'til next year!"
It's the most wonderful time of the year!
Yes, the umps are about to holler "Play ball!" and from major-leagues stadiums to little league sandlots, players are about to start playing games that count. My family is more excited about baseball than ever before, because, for the first time in their lives, sons No. 3 (age 9) and No. 4 (age 7) are going to take a swing at playin' ball.
They're brimming with the confidence that comes from endless hours of practice. Unfortunately, 99% of their training involved mashing buttons on Nintendo controllers, which they used to mash every opponent (namely, me) in a game called "MVP 2004."
(This game is stored in a plastic case that must be covered at all times by a plain brown wrapper; the case features a picture of Albert Pujols, a player whose enormous talent masks a desperately shriveled baseball soul, which he could redeem simply by casting those hideous St. Louis Cardinals rags he wears into a pit of sulfuric acid, and wrapping himself instead in the sacred raiments of my beloved Chicago Cubs.)
Anyway, No. 4 expects to dominate real baseball after going 161-1 in his very first Nintendo season. His team was the Boston Red Sox, who he reminds me every day - usually at a cranium-splitting volume - are not only the reigning world champions, but the "Best Team EVER!" Or at least the greatest team of his lifetime.
During his Nintendo season, one of his computerized Red Sox hit something like 165 home runs, and another slugged over 150. With stats like those, I questioned the game's realism. But it turned out everything was kosher - his digital stars passed every one of their virtual drug tests, and even testified before a pixelated congressional subcommittee.
One somewhat creepy feature of the game is the ability to create a player. My kids are maniacal little Frankenmanagers, fussing over every detail of their creations: from height to weight to facial hair to tattoos.
No. 4 built a guy named - don't ask me why - "Matt Fick," who sports biceps the size of a Buick. Unfortunately, even Matt hasn't helped No. 4 to beat No. 3 in Nintendo "Home Run Derby" (after these losses, No. 4 vents his frustration with cries of "Awww, Fick!")
No. 3 son is newly excited about baseball partly because he's finally chosen favorite teams - coincidentally the favorites of his best buddies at school - the Detroit Tigers and Chicago White Sox. He says he won't be conflicted when they play each other - on those days, he'll just root against the Cubs.
Preparation for "real" baseball got underway despite March's persistently wintry weather: the boys threw, caught and hit at practices held inside a vacant factory. They practiced several important skills. For example, they learned how to maintain their balance while wearing gargantuan batting helmets that make them look like aliens from the planet Tootsie Pop.
No. 4 got a brand new bat and glove for Christmas, and I keep trying to convince No. 3 that he needs a new glove too. But he's very loyal to his current mitt, which - I kid you not - was used by one of my big brothers when HE was a kid. It's an olllllldddd glove. I'd tell you exactly how old, but my brother swears if I reveal any clues to his age, he'll give me a lump on my head the size of Matt Fick.
No. 3 also insists on hitting with a bat that I used in my childhood days on the sandlot. He likes it because it's made of an exotic material called "wood."
The first time he carried his lumber into the batting cage at the abandoned factory, the coaches sized it up and said to each other, in tones of respect, "Old school." No. 3 knew exactly what they meant, and was beaming. He digs "old school."
Since I dig "old school" too, I figured this meant he'd start listening more intently to my baseball memories and stories. He said "Sorry, dad. There's a big difference between 'old school' and 'old drool.'"
# # #
Which do you think is more leathery - my brother's glove or my face? TakefiveT5 @yahoo.com
With those horsehides a-flyin' and Cubs fans all cryin'
"Just wait 'til next year!"
It's the most wonderful time of the year!
Yes, the umps are about to holler "Play ball!" and from major-leagues stadiums to little league sandlots, players are about to start playing games that count. My family is more excited about baseball than ever before, because, for the first time in their lives, sons No. 3 (age 9) and No. 4 (age 7) are going to take a swing at playin' ball.
They're brimming with the confidence that comes from endless hours of practice. Unfortunately, 99% of their training involved mashing buttons on Nintendo controllers, which they used to mash every opponent (namely, me) in a game called "MVP 2004."
(This game is stored in a plastic case that must be covered at all times by a plain brown wrapper; the case features a picture of Albert Pujols, a player whose enormous talent masks a desperately shriveled baseball soul, which he could redeem simply by casting those hideous St. Louis Cardinals rags he wears into a pit of sulfuric acid, and wrapping himself instead in the sacred raiments of my beloved Chicago Cubs.)
Anyway, No. 4 expects to dominate real baseball after going 161-1 in his very first Nintendo season. His team was the Boston Red Sox, who he reminds me every day - usually at a cranium-splitting volume - are not only the reigning world champions, but the "Best Team EVER!" Or at least the greatest team of his lifetime.
During his Nintendo season, one of his computerized Red Sox hit something like 165 home runs, and another slugged over 150. With stats like those, I questioned the game's realism. But it turned out everything was kosher - his digital stars passed every one of their virtual drug tests, and even testified before a pixelated congressional subcommittee.
One somewhat creepy feature of the game is the ability to create a player. My kids are maniacal little Frankenmanagers, fussing over every detail of their creations: from height to weight to facial hair to tattoos.
No. 4 built a guy named - don't ask me why - "Matt Fick," who sports biceps the size of a Buick. Unfortunately, even Matt hasn't helped No. 4 to beat No. 3 in Nintendo "Home Run Derby" (after these losses, No. 4 vents his frustration with cries of "Awww, Fick!")
No. 3 son is newly excited about baseball partly because he's finally chosen favorite teams - coincidentally the favorites of his best buddies at school - the Detroit Tigers and Chicago White Sox. He says he won't be conflicted when they play each other - on those days, he'll just root against the Cubs.
Preparation for "real" baseball got underway despite March's persistently wintry weather: the boys threw, caught and hit at practices held inside a vacant factory. They practiced several important skills. For example, they learned how to maintain their balance while wearing gargantuan batting helmets that make them look like aliens from the planet Tootsie Pop.
No. 4 got a brand new bat and glove for Christmas, and I keep trying to convince No. 3 that he needs a new glove too. But he's very loyal to his current mitt, which - I kid you not - was used by one of my big brothers when HE was a kid. It's an olllllldddd glove. I'd tell you exactly how old, but my brother swears if I reveal any clues to his age, he'll give me a lump on my head the size of Matt Fick.
No. 3 also insists on hitting with a bat that I used in my childhood days on the sandlot. He likes it because it's made of an exotic material called "wood."
The first time he carried his lumber into the batting cage at the abandoned factory, the coaches sized it up and said to each other, in tones of respect, "Old school." No. 3 knew exactly what they meant, and was beaming. He digs "old school."
Since I dig "old school" too, I figured this meant he'd start listening more intently to my baseball memories and stories. He said "Sorry, dad. There's a big difference between 'old school' and 'old drool.'"
# # #
Which do you think is more leathery - my brother's glove or my face? TakefiveT5 @yahoo.com
posted by Don Stuart at 11:41 AM
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