Breathe it in.
Do you know what that is? It’s the sweet smell of summer. It is the scent of grilling hot dogs and hamburger patties on barbecues. The buzz of block parties and swimming pools, sprinklers and fireworks.
But nothing can compare to summer sports: pickup basketball, street hockey, kick the can, and tag. These are the games that bring youngsters together. These are the games that make kids out of all of us, bridging generation gaps between father and son, mother and daughter.
Yet the summertime belongs to one sport alone: baseball.
Does anything say father and son more than an evening game of catch? I can remember the summer evenings of years past that my father and I broke out the gloves for a game of toss. Oftentimes Grandpa would join, his sidearm motion giving each throw an extra hop.
These are the quintessential moments in a familial relationship. There is Dad teaching child to catch a ball, trial-and-error progression resulting in inevitable nosebleeds. Son eclipsing father in arm strength, much to the chagrin of the patriarch. Broken windows from errant throws. These are moments that mark the progression from childhood to adulthood.
Any derivative of the game will work too. As the summer sun rises high into the sky, it’s always a beautiful day for a ball game.
A Wiffle Ball game, that is.
Ever wished you could throw a curveball that would make any Major Leaguer’s knees buckle? If you have, this is the game for you. One toss of the hole-marked sphere sends hitters into a tizzy. Swing the yellow bat and watch as the breeze catches the pop fly, bamboozling fielders.
There is something to be said about the camaraderie a Wiffle Ball game builds. Rules are arbitrary at best. There is, of course, a set of legislated guidelines to the game, but that matters not to frolicking youngsters.
Did the ball go past the pitcher? Base hit! Did it get caught in the trees? Ground rule double!
Each game is subject to the varying dimensions of hodgepodge playing-fields. The variety of possible locales adds to the charm of the game, which is just as easily played in one’s backyard as it is in an alleyway, using trash cans and pizza boxes for bases.
Then there is stickball, most legendary of all summer games. Played in the street, it is a contest not suited to the weak. Broken glass and angry neighbors are constant obstacles. Like its cousin Wiffle Ball, stickball is endowed with a piecemeal quality. Bunches of socks, rocks, or tennis balls become the target of broken-off broomsticks. You can play on a sandlot, forest clearing or a park.
Stickball, then, constantly evolves, yet retains the sacred principles of baseball. With a few caveats, of course.
Summer, then, is a nostalgic time. Break out the baseball gloves, the bat, stick, and ball, and partake in long-standing American traditions. After all, we’re young for only so long.