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.

An hour later, doctors there had confirmed our suspicions: It probably was either a flu or a bad case of gas. But, to be sure it wasn't appendicitis or something serious, more tests needed to be run that would last well into the night (and total a nifty $2,500 co-pay, but that's another story).

As the afternoon passed in the emergency room, Sky slowly began feeling better. Murphy, meanwhile, sank into despair. He knew the game would start in less than an hour, and his chances of seeing it were looking grim. Thinking of the tickets in my pocket, now that disaster appeared averted, I mentioned it was a shame for all of us to miss out. I offered to stay with Sky while Amber took Murphy to the game.

Murphy's mood brightened.

"Can we really go?" he asked.

"It's his first game," Amber said. "Baseball is your guys' thing. He should go with you."

Love that woman. Ultimately, we turned to Murphy and let him pick who he wanted to take him. He smiled sweetly, and pointed toward me. Love that kid. OK then, I said before any minds could change, I'll take him.

"C'mon," I said, "we'd better hurry."

So, Murphy and I leaned over his big brother's hospital bed and hugged the saddest boy in San Francisco, headed outside and began walking down a long, steep hill in search of a ride. A few minutes later, Murphy looked over the front seat of a taxi cab and saw the lights of AT&T Park, towering in the twilight. The thrill on his face was priceless, and helped perk up my mood. Truth is, I was still bummed that my entire family couldn't be together for this one. I had to remind myself that this was about Murphy's first real game.

I never will forget the first time I ran up the stairs at the Oakland Coliseum and saw my first big-league stadium. I was a baseball kid, too, and the scene blew my mind. And now it was Murphy's turn.

As we walked toward the turnstiles, Murphy clutched his ticket in his little hand. Walking through the concourse, a blast of crisp, coastal air blew through. I looked at Murphy and noticed him sort of shivering.

"You cold?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I'm getting all excited."

As we headed up the ramps that led to our seats, I could barely keep up with him. The grin beneath the Braves hat was priceless. When I saw the first patch of green outfield grass, just before it came into his view, I stopped him. I knelt and got eye level with him.

"OK, buddy," I said. "Close your eyes."

"OK."

"You can't open them till I say," I said. "And don't cheat, OK?"

"I won't, Daddy."

We took little steps the rest of the way. Reaching the last row of seats down the right-field line, I guided him to a vacant seat. He felt it with his hand, and slowly sat down. He kept smiling with his eyes closed.

"All right," I said. "Are you ready to see it?"

"Yes."

"OK, open your eyes," I said.

His eyes opened. For a 6-year-old kid whose baseball experiences had been limited to quaint tee-ball diamonds, the enormity of a major-league stadium blew him away. As he scanned the field, taking it all in, his eyes and his smile grew wider. One word was all he could find:

"Whoa!"

Bee staff writer Ty Phillips can be reached at tphillips@modbee.com or 874-5716.

This story was originally published June 15, 2008 at 8:00 AM with the headline "Baseball fever, other ailments."