Baseball fever, other ailments

"Baseball was made for kids, and grown-ups only screw it up."
-- Bob Lemon, Hall of Fame pitcher

The other night, as I tucked the boys into bed, I noticed Murphy had snuck in an odd accessory to his sleepwear: his baseball cap. I leaned over him and lifted the bill a bit to see his eyes; he looked up and smiled.

"Murphy," I said, "you can't sleep with your cap on."

"Why not?"

"Well, you'll squish the bill," I said. "Then it won't look good anymore."

He looked at me for a moment, giving me a glum look to show his disapproval.

"Sorry, buddy," I said, hanging the cap on a hook beside his bed. "You can put it on as soon as you wake up."

"OK," he said, turning over as if he'd given up on the idea. A few minutes later, I returned to see if he and Sky were asleep. And they were. Next to Sky was a baseball glove with a ball tucked inside. In the other bed was Murphy, sleeping soundly beneath the Braves cap that mysteriously had returned to his head. I smiled and walked away.

Yes, there is a good kind of fever sweeping through my house as of late. It's something that feels amazingly fresh and new, even though it's been taking over American households for more than a century. This illness I am talking about is baseball fever, and this year, my boys have become deeply afflicted.

I don't have an explanation for this. It's something that has come straight out of, well, left field. Both have played Little League baseball before, but this year, the sport has captivated them like nothing else ever has. It's literally the only thing they want to do anymore.

Thing is, they're actually pretty good at it. Lately, I've found myself bragging to friends that I've got a kid playing shortstop and batting cleanup in the playoffs -- and I'm not even the coach. I can't begin to tell you how cool I think that is. The sport has given them identities: They are baseball players. And damn proud of it.

The clincher came the other night as I returned home from work long after sunset. As I pulled into the driveway, I spotted a scene that moved me: Sky pitching baseballs to Murphy. Without me. In the dark.

You see, before I had kids, I always envisioned someday teaching a son how to play catch. It was a selfish vision, probably born from the vague nagging sense that I didn't get enough catch with my old man as I was growing up. But that night, I stumbled upon something even greater, a magical scenario I had not considered: my sons playing baseball not with me, but with each other.

At that moment, I decided they were ready for their first big-league game. So I threw together a San Francisco weekend, the highlight of which was a Giants game against the Colorado Rockies. I splurged for four ridiculously priced seats 20 rows behind home plate. I had decided their first game was going to be perfect, something to remember.

I know Sky never will forget it, because, as we drove around the city that afternoon, waiting for game time, a different kind of fever overtook him. The stomach pain we all figured was a mild flu suddenly worsened, ravaging him from within. I knew it was bad when he said he didn't want to go to the game anymore. And Amber and I got really concerned when the kid who hates doctors began pleading with us to find him one, telling us if he had to hurt like this his entire life, he'd rather die. These are big words from the mouth of an 8-year-old.

I found myself madly driving around San Francisco, looking for anything resembling speedy medical care. Finally, I spotted a sign with an arrow pointing toward St. Mary's Hospital.