Backyard Dreams

When I was a boy growing up in South Buffalo there were many pleasures

to be had: swimming at Cazenovia park, fshing the creek, fourth of July

concerts in the park, reading Isaac Asimov novels on rainy afternoons. But

none of these epic pursuits could really compare with a simple game of catch

behind the house with my father.

Back then I thought that I was learning to be a ballplayer, honing my skills

while dad tossed a variety of bloopers, grounders and off - speed stuff. I chased

everything down , endlessly stretching, sliding, running, diving until I felt that

sweet orb of horsehide nestle into the deep hollow of my mitt.

And the mitt. Still have it. A six fnger job - soft right out of the bag. That

mitt was my pillow for six months while I worked the pocket by wrapping a ball

inside and sleeping on it night after night. I dreamed on that mitt.

My dreams weren't big league dreams. Never played much organized

ball. Too many rules. Too many people shouting at you to "swing" or "hold up".

No place for a kid to run free and scout cloud formations from his left feld post.

No. I preferred a quieter brand of baseball. A purer form, if you will.

Most of the action is played out in the imagination where Mickey, Roger or Yogi

hit easy grounders, or looping fy balls that settled nicely into my glove. I mean

those guys were scared of me. I owned them . These games were on my turf.

We had a small yard, even by urban standards. Yet it had the sweetest

patch of grass this side of Yankee stadium.. Cut it myself to make sure it stayed

a the right length. No chop grounders; no cheap outs.

Well, I got older and dad got slower and the time between our games got

longer. Something had changed. He could still throw a nice high pop - up. I

could still hear the crowds cheer as I snagged it basket style like Wille. But the

games got fewer and farther between. My life had expanded in other directions:

the Beatles, girls, trigonometry. In those days I often felt like a rocket

ascending headlong into who knows where. One day I was ready to move to

California; the next I wanted to join a monastery. It was exciting and dangerous

and frightening all at once. But dad never seemed to change. He was a rock: a

little dull but dependable. Steady. A foundation.

And that's where I always returned when I needed that steadiness. It

wasn't a big deal. It wasn't a deep , soul searching experience. I'd simply grab

my old six finger and head out back.. "Play some catch, dad?"

Soon the ball would be sailing high overhead. I 'd track it down just as it

was about to go over the wall. Another home run taken away. Highway robbery right in my own backyard.