My backyard isn’t going to win any landscaping awards anytime soon. Where green grass once flourished along a well-walked corridor of Rodgers Forge, an imaginary diamond has taken shape.
Brown dirt, the fruit of thoroughly trampled grass, is now the most prominent feature of the yard.
My 8-year-old twin boys are obsessed with baseball. They study baseball cards every day and can tell you which player has a birthday today. The moment they wake up, they read about how the Orioles did the night before and delve into biographies of Jackie Robinson, Lou Gehrig, Shohei Ohtani and more.
Most of all, my little guys spend every free minute in that backyard – endlessly practicing pitching, fielding and hitting or staging dramatic scenes that involve walk-off grand slams or heroic diving catches.
Their love of the game began slowly on the same makeshift field they now dominate. When they were about 3, my wife and I started gently tossing Wiffle balls in their direction. Soon they were swinging fat plastic bats and smacking balls from a training set that spat white spheroids in the air. Baseball seeped into nearly every part of life and at bedtime we frequently read “Casey at the Bat.”
Last year, the boys joined a team in a local recreation council. Early on, there were frequent strikeouts, but by the end of the season, they were getting hits at almost every at-bat. This year, in the same league, they began pitching and their coaches picked them to play in the All-Star game.
I don’t think the wins and honors are really the point for them. They’d be just as happy in a losing season as a championship one.
Now that the baseball season has officially ended, my sons play in a wonderful weekly drop-in game that attracts up to 50 kids from the neighborhood.
They aren’t the only ones in our house who’ve caught the bug. My wife and I have four other children, and our youngest – just two and a half – already trails his big brothers into the backyard, proudly carrying a bat nearly as tall as he is and equally determined to play. Two sisters also sometimes join in the action.
When I was my sons’ age, I don’t remember my father ever saying “not right now” when I asked him to play catch. Today, I do the same with my boys.
As balls sail through the air and hit leather with that incredibly satisfying “thwack,” more than baseball skills are taking shape. Bonds are formed. Memories are made. And little windows for conversation open.
I may never be able to explain every mystery of our faith, but I can make time for my children. And in the end, that’s how faith is passed from one generation to the next – not through theological explanations alone, but through 10,000 small catches.
A few years ago, I had the honor of writing a profile of Brooks Robinson, the beloved Orioles’ Hall of Famer whose play at third base my boys now try to emulate. Brooks was a convert to the Catholic faith. Raised a Methodist in Little Rock, Ark., he married a Catholic, and as their four children grew, they started asking why their dad wasn’t joining them at Mass every week.
Brooks, in his understated way, told me it “made a lot of sense” to join the Church and worship alongside his family rather than sitting on the bench.
Faith, like a good swing, gets built one repetition at a time.
When the diamond in my backyard first started taking shape, I admit I was a little annoyed. I loved how much the boys embraced the game, but I was embarrassed by the condition of the yard.
Now, it doesn’t bother me. I know it’s holy ground. The grass will grow back one day. I’m not in any hurry for that.
Email George Matysek at gmatysek@CatholicReview.org
Also see: Brooks Robinson, Oriole legend, buoyed by faith, family, friends
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