Baseball, Part 6

And then it was our grandsons' turn ...

Born in 2005 and 2009, the boys are as different as my brothers and I are. The younger loves to read and draw and imagine; the other excels at math and science. They are two very different instances of excellence—and both are stunning human beings (just saying—totally without bias, of course).

The older showed baseball gifts as well, right from the start. He bats left, throws left, and has a very strong arm—did a lot of pitching when he wasn't playing in the infield. Hits very well, too.

Son Steve coached him for a year or so and attended his games religiously (as he did our other grandson’s); his mom and other grandfather were also there regularly.

They live in Green, Ohio, about 30-40 minutes away from us, so we didn't get down to see games all that often but greatly enjoyed it when we did. There are few things more fun than seeing a grandson excel at something!

But a few years ago our older grandson broke his leg—and badly so; he lost a full season of baseball and was not able to recover some of the speed and agility he'd had.

So he took up golf—now plays whenever he can, played last fall on his high school JV team (he's just finished his sophomore year). And he just found a summer job: working at the front desk at the Firestone Country Club. (Somewhere, his great-grandfather, from whom he got his middle name, must be smiling: That man, Joyce’s father, worked virtually all his life for Firestone down in Akron.)

One of the great perks of our grandson’s job: He can play the course anytime he wants, can use the driving range, the putting green. He is one happy young man ...

The younger grandson (he just turned 12) had a different history with the game. He, too, took it up early, and although he showed considerable facility, he always seemed more in his mind than in the games: He loved imagining a game in his head far more than the one that was on the diamond.

Pretty soon he gave it up and dived into books and drawing and exploring the vast imaginative power of his own mind. He’s actually writing a fantasy novel right now, and (if I may say so) the young man can write. (He’s given me peeks at it.)

Son Steve still follows the Tribe religiously; I’m not sure about his sons.

Which reminds me: Steve saw his first Tribe game when he was still a toddler. Joyce’s uncle Paul went with us down to the Cleveland Stadium on a Friday night, a night when the Tribe’s routine was to have a fireworks show right after the end of the game (most of which they lost in those days).

Uncle Paul had put little Steve on his shoulders (straddling his neck), and he was ecstatic about it all.  Until the fireworks started going off, at which time, startled, he began to cry. It took lots of subduing to simmer him down.

And so now we will wait for the next generation of Dyers ... I’ve told you about five of them. And may they have as much fun as we’ve had—and may they have the courage to leave the game when they’re ready. May they find their own fields of dreams ...

FINAL POST ON THIS TOPIC COMING UP ...