A couple weeks ago I wrote about my discovery of a passion for sports, baseball in particular. When I was old enough to ride a bike without training wheels, my dad figured I was old enough to play baseball. My first memories involving baseball were not successful experiences.
T-ball was my first level of baseball, followed by slow-pitch. It was during this level where I could not figure out which side of the plate I was supposed to hit from. I would play with my cousins and our friends in a lot and when I was up to bat, no one would tell me where I was supposed to stand in order to hit. “It should just be natural,” was the popular answer.
That answer was probably the reason why during my year in little league I never managed to get a base hit. At that young age I had a good eye at the plate, but I couldn’t manage to hit the ball. When I swung the bat, I took my eyes off the ball. The result was not good. I became extremely discouraged and the next year I stopped playing little league.
The next year my dad showed us a “new” movie: Field of Dreams. For the first time in over a year I was excited about baseball again. Following that movie night, the next day my dad and I played catch. What ensued was a summer of baseball. My dad hit me grounders, threw batting practice, and caught my pitching. Dad deserved an award for the work he did that summer. I refused to let us stop unless I made a “superstar” play or threw the “12 to 6” curveball.
I distinctly remember the first time I threw a real curveball. My dad and I were playing catch across the street, something I do not recommend, and I gripped the ball like a two-seam fastball. The night before I had watch a Twins post-game instructional and they explained how to throw a curveball. I didn’t throw the ball as hard as a fastball, and I pulled my arm down and tried to turn the ball.
What followed that throw I won’t ever forget. The ball was knee-high and my dad reached down to catch it. When he put his glove where the ball was supposed to be, it wasn’t there. It hit the ground, and it didn’t do so lightly. After hitting the ground, it ricocheted up and spun all the way behind my dad and almost hit him in the head.
After that moment I was instructed to warn my dad before I threw that pitch. It has been said, “You’re not supposed to throw a curveball until you grow facial hair.” As a 10 or 11-year-old, it’s safe to say that I probably didn’t have any facial hair. The following summer I joined little league and experienced, for the first time, what it was like to hit the ball during an actual baseball game. I owe it all to my dad, because I never would have experienced a joy that would last for a long time.
Editor’s note: Eli’s baseball experiences continued with a trip to the Field of Dreams site near Dyarsville, Iowa with his dad, brother Nate and sister Jessica. A picture of them standing in the outfield corn is on his father’s computre desktop at the Star Eagle. Eli throws right-handed and hits lefty.