On The Orioles, Family, and Earl Weaver

There are many parts about being an Orioles fan that have little to do with the team itself. Matt Taylor over at Roar From 34 is a master at spinning these tales – stories about baseball and family, and how the intersection of the two can affect your appreciation of both in unexpected and wonderful ways.

I have two children, a daughter (8) and a son (5). Being a part of your kids’ lives means sometimes meeting them where they are. For my son, Henry, this means we talk a lot of Ninja Turtles, Lego design, Captain America, and most importantly, Star Wars. All the Star Wars. All the time.

It also means bringing your experience into their world – sharing with them the things that make you the person you are. For instance, my son has three CDs in his room. One of them is a coaster. The others are With the Beatles and Revolver. It also means that he knows that baseball is an Important Thing^TM, and that we love it. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he knows that baseball is at the core of dad.

Dad, can I listen to the Orioles on the radio as I go to sleep?

Dad, did Adam Jones play last night?

Dad, who are the Bad Guys tonight?

As a little boy, he’s becoming more interested in baseball, and I’m happy to share that with him. Maybe he won’t love it like I do. My daughter and I are incredibly close, but when it comes to the three hours of orange-induced madness, she could take it or leave it. No biggie. If someday Henry decides baseball isn’t his thing, that will be fine. But while he’s deciding, I have no problem trying to tip the scales.

At five, he’s now eligible to play in the local rec league. We signed him up for t-ball with delight, and this week, we met with his coach to pick up uniforms and get the opening day details. As we move forward, I have to remind myself not to be That Dad. You know That Dad. That Dad takes youth sports way too seriously and strips the fun out of something that is supposed to be a fun, character-building experience.

Picking up the uniforms presented the first test. All I could think about on the drive over was what I would do if my son were placed on the Red Sox. How well would I hide my disgust? How badly would the other parents judge me when I bought him a plain navy blue cap, and forbid my son from wearing the team cap? Would I find myself secretly rooting against my own son’s squad? Thankfully, I was saved from this test. But there was one more to follow.

We met with his new coach, who turned out to be an a very nice guy – even nicer when he produced a series of miniature Colorado Rockies uniforms from his bag (this, I could stomach). Being the first to arrive he said “well, you get you pick – which number do you want?”

Oh no. Don’t be That Dad, don’t be That Dad, don’t be That Dad. This is t-ball. This shouldn’t be a question that matters. “Whatever you’ve got is fine, surprise me.” Whew. I was starting to break a sweat, at this point. We needed to get out of there in a hurry. The coach handed me a purple number four jersey, and we went on our merry way.

On the drive home, while patting myself on the back for not being That Dad who insisted that his son wear the number of one of his childhood idols, Henry piped up from the back seat “hey Dad, who from the Orioles is number four?” My wife and I exchanged a grin, and I chose my words carefully.

“Well, kiddo, let me tell you about a man named Earl Weaver…”