This is the real stuff: hardball, played on college fields, even full-on "costumes," as my wife calls our uniforms.
Except it's for ancients like me.
Our player-manager has but one functioning eye. Mike, our beautifully athletic centerfielder, has an artificial hip. Ronnie, our leftfielder, has two artificial hips. It's a great time, but it feels strange to be the only one in the family still playing baseball.
Now, it's my sons who are coaching me. Griff and I play catch to bring my arm back to life every spring. Last month, I brought our gloves on a road trip to visit Will at college.
The gloves almost didn't get out of the trunk. But on the last day of our vacation, as we were leaving his freshman dorm room and saying goodbye, Will turned to me and said, "I miss baseball. I wish I had my glove down here."
"I have your glove, Sweetie, it's in the car," I said.
Beaming, he put on the old glove, marveling at how small it felt. "Thanks, Dad. I really missed this," he said. "It's...like...a part of me."
We played catch for just a minute, and then I had to wave goodbye and head home, with a lump in my throat.
I'm glad I'm still playing baseball. But I'm even gladder to know that Will gets it. Years from now, when spring rolls around and I'm too old to play, it will be Will who will haul out the equipment bag, and teach his own kids how to play.
With a Perspective, I'm Gordon Wright.