I forced Luca to watch the 1989 baseball classic “Major League.” A film that could never be made in 2021. You know, because of the racism and misogyny and the Charlie Sheen. We quietly ignored the particularly awful bits and concentrated on the dramatic baseball moments.
As a result, Luca’s love of the game skyrocketed. He asks me for a catch every night after dinner. I can say without hyperbole that throwing pop ups to my son as the sun sets and I get eaten my mosquitos is the greatest feeling in the history of the world.
It’s a bummer that Luca hasn’t been able to play on a real, live baseball team in two years. Until now (cue dramatic music).
One of Luca’s buddies, the one who wore a sport coat to our last Superbowl party, asked Luca to join his team for the playoffs. The brief moment of COVID dip sent most of his team’s families on vacation, so they were short.
He had one day to prepare, which was just enough time for me to completely freak him out. “Don’t panic. Don’t think about the fact you haven’t played in two years or don’t know anyone on the team or that you are prone to nervousness or how important this game is or how many people will be staring at you or that this could very well be the most important moment of your young life.”
I don’t think Luca blinked for 24 hours.
Thankfully for both of us, he got a ride to the game with his pal and I was left to my own anxiety. I arrived at the game the requisite Hamann half hour early and Luca had already slipped into the casual camaraderie of athletic tweens. Every other word out of their mouths was “bruh” and Luca speaks fluent Bruh.
He raced up to me and excitedly told me about pre-game batting practice and bruh this and bruh that and I could see in his eyes that he was in heaven. He had two requests: Could I film his at bats and please don’t embarrass him. I guaranteed at least one of the two.
Diana arrived with Jerry, who wanted nothing more than to lovingly attack every single kid in a uniform, and we settled down to watch the kickoff. Or tipoff. I prayed my pre-game prayer, “Lord, please let absolutely no balls be hit towards my son. Amen.”
The team got absolutely clobbered, but Luca played well, which is kind of perfect. He even caught a fly ball to briefly stop the other team from reaching the slaughter rule score.
Then it was time for Luca to bat. I raced to shove my camera in between the chain link fence. Keep in mind the other pitcher was in the middle of a brilliant no hitter. He was throwing like that pitcher whose name you recognize.
And then that little jerk got a hit. Right up the middle, over the pitcher and into the outfield. Diana and I screamed our faces off and Jerry thought it was the apocalypse.
In case you are wondering, this is still a Hamanneggs post so I totally screwed up filming him. I have some great footage of my feet celebrating Luca’s hit.
Did we overdo it congratulating Luca? Did we put wayyyyy too much importance on sports? Did we set him up for disappointment down the road? We sure did. Ice cream, kisses, his choice of whatever dinner he wanted, his face tattooed on our faces.
Charlie Sheen, eat your heart out.
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