America's Favorite Pastime

I grew up in a baseball house. My life has been filled with practice and games, lineups, coaching drills, catch in the backyard, scorebooks and balls scattered through the house, stat sheets, and the ever-prominent “baseball bag.”

Since the age of five, at least one of my brothers have been playing the sport. My dad has been coaching for at least the last eight of those. My mom has been the crazy baseball mom the entire time. She grew up playing softball, with my dad playing baseball. I grew up as Travis Hafner, Grady Sizemore, CoCo Crisp, Manny Ramirez, and C.C. Sabathia took the field. Now it’s Corey Kluber, Fransico Lindor, Carlos Carrasco, Roberto Perez, and Yasiel Puig. From March to October or November (if we’re lucky), the TV is constantly turned to Sports Time Ohio while Tom Hamilton and Rick Manning’s voices fill my living room.

My sister and I never really jumped on the baseball bandwagon. We both tried our hand at softball; she lasted one season longer than me, but still, she only played for two years. My lack of coordination when it came to anything concerning a baseball contributed to my lack of interest. I grew up on a baseball field and I hated it. I was drug from game to game, practice to practice. My summer weekends were spent at tournaments and I sat on our old baseball blanket bored out of my mind. There were a few friends I made over the years but for the most part I was either too old or too young to play with the other kids. So, I sat on my blanket and I read a book, or played with my toys, or did any number of activities to curb my boredom. Nothing was ever enough to make me want to spend my evenings at the field. I would complain without fail about having to go.

I think the root of my hatred for the sport came from my jealousy. I watched as my brothers got to bond with my dad at practice or in the backyard playing catch. I would listen to my mom cheer with a ferocity she couldn’t quite possess at my sporting events. It wasn’t that my parents loved me less or cared about my brothers’ sports more. It was the simple fact that baseball was (and still very much is) their love. They love that game with a fierce passion. Nothing gets my parents more riled up than a good baseball game. Most kids grow up with their dad yelling at the TV, I grew up with both. I don’t resent my parents for their love of the game, or the way they became involved in my brothers’ teams. More than anything, I’m sad I wasn’t a part of that world.

One day, I decided that baseball was beautiful. I decided I was going to love the game. I was going to love the Indians, and I was going to cheer on my brothers with the ferocity my parents had. I got mad at umpires, I cheered when they got a hit, I sat with bated breath when my brother was on the mound, I forced myself to love baseball. Now, I couldn’t imagine my life without baseball. I want to work in the baseball industry. I want to be a part of the world I grew up in. Five-year-old me would probably be disgusted, but 20-year-old me is thankful for parents that taught me everything I know about baseball and giving me a love for the game.