A father with his daughters on a diamond (in 2017)
I became a father on May 6, 1999. I knew at the time — such a profound milestone in my life — that baseball would help raise my daughter. Well, baseball has helped me raise two daughters. And they can each swing a bat better than I ever could. This is a version of an essay I wrote in April 2000 (for Memphis magazine), as my first Opening Day as a parent approached. The lessons, I hope, will apply for those just now fitting a child with her (or his) first glove.
Baseball is a game that lends itself to storytelling. Nothing taps the sponge that is a child’s brain like a good story, particularly one in which she (or her parents) participated. It often seems as though my youth’s timeline was tracked according to baseball lore. Aside from his account of shaking Elvis’ hand as a teenager at Katz Drug Store, my father’s boyhood tale of bumping into Hall of Famer Stan Musial in the bowels of old Russwood Park (during a St. Louis Cardinals exhibition game) was the single most repeated legend in the Murtaugh household. My mom still get laughs in telling friends how her son was far more interested in seeing Chief Knock-A-Homa do his dance at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium than in witnessing the Hank Aaron home run the Braves’ mascot was celebrating. My daughters have heard my story of shaking Ozzie Smith’s hand. A lot. (My firstborn’s friendship with Willie McGee? Now that’s a story.)
Baseball is easy to teach (and learn). Try and explain the difference between a middle linebacker and a strong safety to a child. Or a shooting guard and small forward. Good luck. How much easier it is to gaze at a diamond and point out the shortstop, the centerfielder, the pitcher, and the catcher. Each position has its own defined space, its own responsibility. The bases and baselines are clear. Aside from the strike zone, there is little subjectivity to baseball. The ball is caught or it isn’t. A batter is out or is safe. Granted, the infield-fly rule will take some time, but remember the joy of learning? It can be found in a baseball stadium.
Baseball is timeless. From the moment you begin watching a football game (or basketball, or soccer for that matter), the clock is counting against your visit. Settle into your seat at AutoZone Park, though, and you may see five innings, most likely nine, but perhaps 15. We spend far too much of our time, even our personal time, rushing places. A baseball game offers a setting where time simply does not matter. There’s no such thing as a deadline in the world of baseball and, heaven knows, families need to escape deadlines now and then.
Baseball bonds. I’ve lost touch with nearly all my high school and college teachers, most of whom are completely decent people (and impacted my life). But to this day, I correspond with my high school baseball coach, a man now coaching on the college level, grandchildren his top priority. I can’t fully explain or measure the connection my coach and I still feel. I suppose its closest comparison is that of an older sibling or friend opening your eyes to something that has since become dear to you. While you cherish the wisdom passed down, your heart keeps a place for the one who shared it with you.
A teammate is forever. As in most endeavors, to succeed in baseball requires individual achievement, but within the framework of a goal-oriented team. Like every father should, I do all I can to encourage and support whatever my daughters enjoy and whatever skills they show. I try to remind them, though, that any achievement is made all the more rewarding when in the context of a group of friends, colleagues, or teammates. My fondest memory of winning a high school baseball championship? The hugs and laughter after the game was over.
Take turns. Elementary, you say? Find a children’s soccer game and just watch the swarm of legs and arms surround the ball like so many electrons clinging to an atom. (There’s a great hockey expression when players converge on the puck in front of the net: “a dog breakfast.”) In a baseball game, every player gets an at-bat . . . one at a time. The pace of the game is conducive to teaching young people that their moment will come, if they can just be patient. Furthermore, a child will learn to support others in their moment. After all, the best way to get to that at-bat a little earlier is for your predecessors to get on base themselves.
Baseball is not life. Matter of fact, what makes the game most essential is that it is a diversion from our everyday routine. Now for four generations of my family, the game of Ruth, Cobb, Mays, and Mantle has added a healthy dose of color to the Murtaugh fabric. My daughters learned right from wrong by listening to their parents, teachers, and yes, coaches. They’re now learning (in college) what they’ll need to succeed on their own, to build careers that reward in ways beyond a salary. But hopefully Sofia and Elena have gathered a few happy tidbits — maybe a golden rule or two — from watching and sharing the game I hold so dear. (As softball teammates for White Station High School in 2017, the Murtaugh sisters helped the Spartans to a state sectional for the first time in school history.)
The baseball lesson I’ve most wanted to instill in my daughters’ way of thinking is the game’s central mission, the idea around which the rest of the game has been structured. I hope they’ll always remember that throughout their lives, wherever they go, the greatest joy of all — just as in the game of baseball — is to come home.