My son has always been a professional baseball player. I mean, he’s always played for money and compensation, since he was 4 years old.
Flashback to 11 years ago.
The rules for our front-yard game of catch, were pretty simple; Every time my son would succesfully throw the baseball to my mitt, he would win a $1, and every time he caught the ball, he would earn another.
The first couple of outings, Brady, would make between $5 and $10. We would end the evening session with tense negoiations, with management succefully able to negoitate the sum down, for either ice cream or candy. Over the following weeks and months, our game would continue. The amount of funds my son’s arm would generate, steeply inclined upwards of $100-a-night; but since he was only 4 years-old (without an agent), I was always able to escape with buying baseball cards and M & M’s.
This bribery scheme was hatched with a simple goal and dream; I wanted my “1 in 68,” (1 in 68 children are on the autism spectrum) beautifully-gifted child, to fit in. I believed at the time, that if I could give my son, the love of baseball, specifically the Detroit Tigers — we would have a venue for conversations and a chance to mask his unique traits amongst his peers. Miraculously, it has worked.
The phone rang on a Sunday night, it was a parent of Brady’s Kindergarten classmate. The unexpected solicitor wanted to see if I was interested in coaching T-ball, I have no idea why I was picked, or how many “nos” happened prior. I proudly accepted. The following evening was the night of our inaugural practice. Brady was outfitted in jeans, a Tigers T-shirt, an English “D” cap, and a recently purchased bat. As we walked to the baseball diamond, my son tossed-and-dropped his mitt, with every stride. The first child that arrived moments later, Nick Olnhausen, was wearing a Mud Hens’ tee, white baseball pants, and double-wristbands on each arm. Nick was kind enough to bring his own personal catching equipment and batter’s helmet, in a equally-nice baseball bag.
Many fears of fatherhood failure instantly flooded my soul.
T-Ball evolved into “Coach Pitch,” which turned into “kid-pitch” and eventually travel baseball. My dream for my son, since that first time stepping on the grass at Sylvan Elementary — was for him to love the sport when his body’s coordination would match his size. My bigger fantasy was the hope that he could one-day make his High School team. It wasn’t about potential letters sewn on overpriced jackets, but social acceptance.
When I was nine years old, the Detroit Tigers won the 1984 World Series. The summer leading up to Fall Classic, might have been the greatest for children in Northwest Ohio. There wasn’t a single day we failed to play baseball. Armed with long yellow whiffle ball bats and tennis balls, kids would dream to be Lou Whitaker, Kirk Gibson, Larry Herndon or anyone else in Sparky’s lineup.
My favorite player was the center fielder, Chet Lemon. It wasn’t for Chet’s tenacity on the basepath but for the way he chased down fly balls in the outfield. Number 34 didn’t use the traditional and coach-endorsed method of using two hands. Mr. Lemon used one. I quickly adapted his style, and remember my Dad yelling from the sideline: “Use two hands, Chet Lemon.” My dad was not a fan of his approach to the game.
I knew if my son would find a Tiger of his own, he’d be cursed for life. Brady found #30, Magglio Ordonez. in late 2006. Magglio hit a walk-off home run, that sent Detroit back to the World Series. One of the symptoms of 1-in-68 children is delayed speech.
Brady received a gadget that contained Dan Dickerson’s famous radio call of Magglio’s blast. “Monroe edges off of second .. the one-oh, a swing and a fly ball, left field … it’s deep … it’s WAAAAAY BACK … THE TIGERS ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES!” My son would play this audio track repeatedly, while mimicking Ordonez’s triumph trot around the bases. He used this movement as a way to calm his brain, something he still does today. It did not take long, but Brady’s speech start catching up.
His love of the Tigers became an obsession. Like most boys, he wasn’t a fan of books, but we started catching him reading (unprompted) and memorizing the back of the Tigers’ baseball cards. The statitsics made sense.
As he learned about the inner-workings of the Major Leagues — the Toledo Mud Hens became the focal point of his education. He got to witness up-and-coming players, rookies, and veterans on a rehab assignment, including non-Tigers like Curt Schilling and Daisuke Matsuzaka. He would witness and interact with the Hens during one of their summer baseball camps, and proceed to see the very same players later take the field in Detroit. Every season, we would take his current team to a Mud Hens game. One of team nights, we were at Fifth Third Field, and watched on the Jumbotron as Justin Verlander threw a no-hitter.
For his ninth birthday, Brady was given the chance to throw a first pitch before a Mud Hens game. He had recently started pitching, was fascinated by the mound and the alleged advantage given to the pros. During his little league games, the distance was 40 feet, and his accuracy was suspect. Imagine a smaller version of Charlie Sheen’s character from Major League — before he got the eyeglasses. With his teammates watching from the stands and two nervous parents watching from the infield. Brady took the ball, climbed the mound and delivered a 60 foot, 6 inch strike. The crowd was appreciative with his effort. As he left the circle, he acknowledged the cheers with a simple tip of the cap, like he’d been there a 1,000 times before.
Over the last decade, the Mud Hens have been a part of our extended family. Going to a ballgame at the corner of Washington and Huron, has felt the same as car-ride to Grandma’s house.
The game of baseball has provided a running topic of conversation between a man and his son. It’s been a shared experience and a way for us to talk about many other things. This pastime has provided normalcy for my “1 in 68” child. Fifth Third Field has been the home of so many breakthroughs — I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Brady celebrated his fifteenth birthday on April 9th. The Mud Hens’ season had yet to reach the Glass City. Five days prior, he pitched from another raised mound — the season opener for his freshmen team. While wearing the #30, Brady threw a complete-game, allowing one run, while striking out nine. It took 85 pitches and his teammates’ bats, to give him his first high school win.
I don’t know where it goes from here, but I am excited to find out what he does next.
Happy Birthday, Jackie!
