Say Uncle Well, at least I tried. I'm an Uncle, like many guys are, and yesterday I attempted to carry on a very Uncle-like tradition. This is no small stuff - we're only talking about the greatness of American life, a kind of glory every boy should know: I bought my nephew his first baseball glove, a classic Rawlings third-baseman's, bearing the simulated signature of New York Yankees star Alex Rodriquez (a.k.a. "A-Rod"). This was an online purchase - a clear indicator of the end of my Luddite phase - so I had it shipped straight to him. I called my brother Vincent to make sure I'd sent it to the right address, and to confirm that nobody else had gotten him one already. I also had to make sure he knew how to break the mitt in, information I had just gleaned from a former college baseball player. It takes time, first of all. When I was a kid, we didn't use any holistic remedies, because we didn't know of any. We simply played with the thing, the first few dozen fly balls sliding out of the new glove's shiny heel and bouncing off our foreheads. Eventually, it would become flexible enough to prevent that from happening. Now I know better, and can pass this valuable knowledge on to the next generation, so that their foreheads might be spared. For three days straight, I am told, one should rub the glove down with neetsfoot oil. Why is neetsfoot oil superior to other oils, compounds, waxes or conditioners? It doesn't matter why. After three days of oiling, a baseball should be socked into the middle of the glove, which should then be wrapped shut around the ball, tied in place with a roast string. Why a roast string? It doesn't matter why. Then, the neetsfoot-oiled glove with the ball stuffed inside and tied shut with a roast string should be cooked in an oven (not a microwave oven, not a convection oven) for a couple of hours - or was it a couple of days? - at 150 degrees or so. Actually, if you live in Arizona, you can probably just leave it out in the sun; it has the same effect. As long as the glove does not blacken on the outside, it should break in nicely. If my nephew never plays a game of organized baseball in his life, or even if he detests baseball in general, it is my guess that he will nonetheless appreciate and perhaps even revere this glove. It might be the smell of the leather, or the implosively satisfying achievement of shagging flies, or the bugs swimming in the summery sweat of your temples - something makes the game special when you're a kid. Later on, you find out that the Cubans are actually better than we are, and you learn about the Chicago Black Sox. You meet characters like Jose "The Steroid Monster" Canseco, and Pete Rose. You realize there never was a '94 World Series, and the magic moves on to other things, like cars and loud music. Or maybe that's just my perception of the game of baseball, the game of life. I'm sounding like an old-timer now, and I can't help it. Maybe we've all moved beyond that now. Reading the papers this past weekend, I questioned every thought I've ever had on the subject. In Dunbar, Pennsylvania (not far from Pittsburgh), a 27-year old tee-ball coach has been arrested on charges of criminal solicitation to commit aggravated assault and corruption of minors, among other things. All legalese aside, he paid one of his players $25 to bean a teammate (described as having a mental disability) in the head and in the groin with a baseball. The alleged beaning took place before a game, and the victim was unable to play. We're talking about children who are eight years old, about the same age as my nephew. This is indicative of a sick society, one that is maxed out on aggressive, victory-oriented behavior. We are reaching a dangerous point, one that has been coming at us for a while now. Remember "Hockey Dad"? At least his fight was with another adult. The tee-ball coach, could have killed this little kid. From the Associated Press article: "The coach was very competitive," state Trooper Thomas B. Broadwater said. "He wanted to win." You know, like Karl Rove does. It's perfectly understandable. I read this story the morning after buying the baseball glove and having it sent to my nephew. At least my brother, an accomplished soccer coach, has experience with lunatic sports parents. After one heated contest, a really angry dad from the opposing team tried to run over (with a car, I'm saying) one of his players in the parking lot. As a coach and parent, maybe Brer Vince can explain to his son why his coach wants him to take out one of his teammates. And as an Uncle, maybe I can come up with a memorable and effective way to say, "I'm sorry. I thought it was only a game." Paul Heller 7/18/05 << back to the archives
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