As a boy, my father played semi‑professional baseball in Grandville, Michigan. He earned a few dollars each game, but money was tight, and our family often couldn’t afford tickets. Mom, ever resourceful, usually found a way to get us in, until one night a new gatekeeper refused. Dad went inside to sign in, while Mom led us back to the car.
After a while, she returned and whispered, “Follow me.” We crept along the chain‑link fence until she pointed to a hole underneath. Karen went first, then me, then Ron. Mom squeezed through last, brushing dirt from her clothes. “Don’t tell anyone,” She warned. Moments later, she stumbled into a hole, twisting her ankle.
I ran to the dugout to fetch Dad. He left the game despite the manager’s protest and carried Mom out past the suspicious ticket taker. The next day, Dr. Brooks confirmed it was only a sprain. We never tried sneaking in again.
Dad loved baseball, dreamed of playing professionally, but family came first. He gave up the semi‑pro games, though sometimes he saved enough to take us to see the Detroit Tigers. Mom rooted for the Yankees and Yogi Berra.
Because of his love for the game, Dad wanted his sons to play too. One day he brought home a new bat and ball. As the eldest, I claimed them, setting the rules for neighborhood games. If my team lost, I’d snatch the bat and ball and end the day. Then Tom Gifford arrived with his own equipment, and suddenly my rules didn’t matter. I had to learn to play by someone else’s.
I’d like to say I learned my lesson then. I didn’t… not fully. Letting go of control is hard. But here’s what I know:
The fences we crawl under as children become the boundaries we must cross as adults. Baseball taught me something I’ve carried ever since. Control is fleeting. The bat passes, the rules shift, and the innings keep moving whether we like it or not. We can cling to pride and watch from the sidelines, or we can step back onto the field and play by the rules we make together… because in the end, the game isn’t about who owns the bat… It’s about whether everyone gets a chance to swing.