Depending on the week, and the calendar, I try to take the boys out after dinner one night. Sometimes we walk around the neighborhood or explore one of the local schools. Other nights, like our recent trip to Lowe’s, an ordinary errand somehow turns into an adventure. Last night, though, we ended up somewhere that has become familiar to all three of us—the baseball fields.

Brooks has a private baseball lesson this weekend, and we really haven’t had much time to practice since his last one. So he carried his glove and I carried mine, while Joseph carried a bright green bouncy baseball that he wasn’t letting go of for anything.

We headed over to the tee-ball field where the fences are still up because the All-Star teams are playing. One of the teams was practicing on the field next to us, so we stood and watched for a few minutes before Brooks and Joseph took turns throwing me the ball. Eventually Joseph lost interest and wandered over to the dugout, where he was perfectly content to sit in the dirt and entertain himself.

Brooks and I practiced fly balls, ground balls, and throwing mechanics. Having coached baseball for most of my life, I can’t help but try to correct every throw, and eventually he gets tired of hearing it. So we took a break.

Then Brooks invented a game.

I stood at the plate pretending to swing an imaginary bat before tossing the ball. Sometimes it was a ground ball. Sometimes I threw it high in the air. Brooks would field it, fake the throw to first, and then toss it back to me.

After a while he wanted to hit instead. Except instead of pretending to run to first, he was actually trying to make it all the way around the bases before I could retrieve the ball and tag him out. He quickly realized the secret was throwing the ball somewhere I couldn’t easily reach. After chasing a few intentionally launched balls into the outfield, I decided that particular game wasn’t nearly as much fun for me as it was for him.

Eventually we went back to ground balls while Brooks attempted a few tricks he’d seen watching Banana Ball. Before long it was time to head home. Joseph was done playing in the dirt—though the dirt certainly wasn’t done with him. He walked over, told me to take my glove off, grabbed my hand, and simply said,

“Let’s go… see Mama.”

So we did.

On the walk home we stopped to play hide-and-seek among the trees lining the ball fields, studied the map outside the community garden, and slowly made our way back for baths and bedtime.

Later that night, after the boys were asleep, I pulled out my phone. I had taken a few videos of Brooks throwing, but as I scrolled backward I found older videos too—his helmet hanging over his ears, swinging his first little bat.

I’ve played baseball for almost ten years. I wasn’t very good.

Then I coached for another ten years.

Now I’m coaching Brooks.

I don’t know how long he’ll play baseball. Right now he loves it, and as my dad always told me, “Keep playing until it isn’t fun anymore.”

That advice has stayed with me all these years.

When Brooks eventually looks back on baseball—whether that’s five years from now or fifteen—I hope he doesn’t remember his batting average, the wins and losses, the errors, or the strikeouts.

I hope he remembers the walks to the ball field.

The made-up games.

Trying Banana Ball tricks.

His teammates.

And me being out there with him.

Because when I think back on my own childhood, those are the things I remember most about playing baseball with my dad as my coach. The older I get, the more I realize that the memories that matter rarely come from championships or statistics. They come from ordinary evenings spent together.

Years from now, when baseball is over for both of us, I don’t think I’ll remember every practice or every game.

I’ll remember walking to the ball field with my boys.

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When Errands Turn Into An Adventure
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