 |
 |
First Rites
A 4-year-old’s introduction to baseball
by Tony Basilio
Baseball is a generational sport, one that must be handed down like a sacrament to be truly cherished and understood. My son, who has yet to reach the age of 5, received his first baseball communion recently at Smokies’ Park. A benevolent pitcher from Huntsville, Ala., performed the rites, guaranteeing that Anthony will never be the same again.
It happened at a game we attended in the aftermath of a birthday dinner for my wife (who is now counting backwards, by the way). Living with twins, we usually don’t get anywhere on time, certainly not the ballpark. But this evening was different; it was Jersey Night, and the kids were driving us crazy. We arrived two hours before game time, to an empty stadium, where we caught the tail end of batting practice. That was OK with me; I’ve always believed there’s something special about watching the ballpark come alive as other fans slowly trickle in.
Looking on as a thunderstorm rolls in, however, is not as amusing.
We saw the clouds gathering, but it was Jersey Night, after all. Surely it can’t rain on Jersey Night! After dodging the Smokies mascot “Slugger” (my son is terrified of this big blue monstrosity) and the raindrops for 45 minutes, however, we finally conceded, and decided to wait out the downpour from the drier safety of the car.
The baseball gods must have been watching over us that evening, because I actually begged my wife, the birthday girl, to let us go home. But she was having none of it, assuring me the storm would blow over. Staying proved to be a fateful decision. The storm did indeed blow over, and my son fell in love with baseball that night.
After more than an hour’s delay we walked back into a ballpark that was almost as sparsely populated as it was on our arrival two hours earlier. The storm chased off most of the fairweather fans, and we were able to take prime seats on field level down the third base line. We were right next to the bullpen where the starter from the Huntsville Stars, Dennis Sarfate, was warming up.
Field level was an interesting mix of kids begging for autographs coupled with adults who were seemingly in the memorabilia business, pleading for signatures. Amidst all this sat my son, 4-year-old Anthony, with his little black glove. With other kids calling for a souvenir, Sarfate for some reason decided he wanted my son to have the ball he was throwing. Nonchalant, he pranced over to where we sat, made eye contact with my son and put the ball in Anthony’s glove.
As a member of the sports media, I’ve seen some pretty awesome things, but this was different. This time the experience was my own; Sarfate just hooked up my kid! It was the proudest moment of Anthony’s young existence, and the Basilios had just become the biggest Dennis Sarfate fans in the world.
Of course, this meant he was doomed. Sarfate walked onto the field to a standing ovation from the Basilio family, and that turned out to be the highlight of his evening. He walked the first two batters he faced, then hit the third with a pitch. Pretty soon, five runs had scored with only one out recorded, and Sarfate left the game. He may have been the loser, but in my son’s eyes he was Nolan Ryan, Roger Clemens and Cy Young all rolled into one.
Anthony fell asleep in the back of the car on the way home. When I tried to lift him from his car seat and carry him into our house, he awoke, startled. He wanted his ball. I let him go to bed with his prized souvenir, then took it and set it aside once he fell asleep.
About an hour later, I walked into Anthony’s room to check on him, and noticed that the ball I laid on the bedside table was gone. So was his glove. I pulled the covers back only to find my son sleeping soundly, the little black glove on his left hand, the Sarfate baseball clutched in his right.
Like anyone smitten with a passion, Anthony hasn’t been able to stop talking about the pitcher from Huntsville who introduced him to the game of baseball. Some will no doubt read this and say “big deal.” But those of us who have been blessed enough to have a baseball handed down to us like a rite of passage understand. Dennis Sarfate, you will get ‘em next time. And even if you don’t, Anthony Basilio loves you anyway!
June 24, 2004 • Vol. 14, No. 26
© 2004 Metro Pulse
|
|
