It's 9AM
Number #10 wore #3 this past weekend in Alabama.
He was with the team we pick up with when we’re not with our regular team.
Florence AL is a cool little place.
In 1970, The Rolling Stones stayed there and recorded “Brown Sugar” and two other songs.
We were in a hotel built on a site where the Holiday Inn once stood.
Across the street from the now closed Days Inn.
The Stones stayed in Florence, then crossed the bridge into Muscle Shoals to record three songs in the historic studio.
I saw the sign on my run Saturday morning.
Getting up early and exploring some place new.
Places.
Then later that day, #10 hit a home run.
I went to collect the ball, and it reminded me of his first one over the fence.
Then I ran across what I said about it then.
A lot of it holds true, especially as we approach the Hallmark Holiday this Sunday.
And I couldn’t wait to share it with you.
I knew twenty years ago that I would go bald.
I’m not quite there yet, but it will happen.
The hairline has been on a creep, the top of my dome on a thin, year after year.
I’ve had kids trace the pattern and make fun of me.
I’ve even had a woman I dated say it wasn’t going anywhere because she didn’t want to be with a bald guy.
But I never thought I’d be a hat guy.
I came by my hairline honestly, through genetics.
I wasn’t much of a ball cap wearer through my first few decades.
I don’t even like wearing caps all that much.
But when I moved back to Arkansas, I moved in with someone who had a bald dad and he was a ball cap man.
Hundreds of ball caps, mostly trucker style, with foam fronts and mesh backs.
They lined shelves, and racks and hooks in stacks.
They advertised truckers and trucks, and hunting gear and a few freebies from around town spots, like the insurance guy who retired and died twenty years ago.
And Les, because of her dad, thought I would like ball caps too.
In her mind, bald equaled ball cap.
So she bought me one.
That was four years ago. I think I have twelve now.
None bought by me.
I still wear the first one the most.
It’s for the ball team the 9 year old plays for, the Bulldogs.
It’s a Gonzaga hat that’s been repurposed, vintage style, which means it’s faded, worn and broken in.
Kind of like me.
I’ve worn it to almost sixty tournaments, and the team has won a lot of them, so it must be lucky.
Baseball players are a superstitious lot, and since we know belief equals magic, then I have to be a little superstitious too.
We went to Ballparks of America in Branson this weekend to play in the Cinco De Branson tournament.
This place was pretty cool, it’s a replica of 4 famous ballparks across America. St Louis. Brooklyn. Boston. Chicago.
It was built in an old outlet mall property, which I think is a cool redesign.
My birthday was on Saturday, and Facebook reminded a lot of my friends of that fact.
The team met at the hotel lobby early to go over to the game together, and the Coach announced we had a birthday.
The kids looked at each other in confusion. They all know each other’s birthdays.
Then, 11 nine year old boys sang me happy birthday.
It was cool.
Until we got to the ballfield.
Our 9 year old is a great player. Just a natural athlete. He’s had a ball in his hand since he was born, and until he discovered Fortnite, all he wanted to do was play catch.
Ever heard of the 10,000 hour rule?
That’s what we did from the time he was three until last year. Hours in the yard tossing the ball. Going to the practice field to catch pop flies, to do batting practice.
Every time he asked, I said yes.
Even when I didn’t feel like it. Even when I didn’t have “time.” Even when my body was sore, and my back was out, or I felt stressed out and overwhelmed, if he asked, I said yes.
So he’s good. Borderline great. You can see his pitching on Youtube.
Between games, we pull up our fold out chairs and sit together as a group, then herd a bunch of wild, amped up players into trying to “be still” and “rest” for the next game.
Our 9 year old disappeared into the giftshop, came out and got his mom, and took her inside.
Then he walked out with a bag, didn’t say a word and handed it to me.
I put it in the wagon.
His mom had bought a couple of things inside the shop, so I just thought it was another purchase.
“No!” he laughed at me. “That’s for you.”
I opened it up and it was a ball cap.
Put it on and thanked him, and wore it for the rest of the day, telling everyone he got it for me.
I felt proud, and sounded annoying, I’m sure.
In the next game, I wasn’t wearing my lucky hat.
I kept on the new birthday ball cap.
#10 got up to bat, took two strikes and two balls on the count.
I wondered if I should put on my vintage cap again.
Then he cracked it. Long and high, with an arch that would look at home in St. Louis.
It sailed over the fence 235 feet away as he rounded second.
He sprinted across home plate to meet his team waiting to cheer and pat his back, while the parents shouted and screamed in joy.
He pushed out of them and jogged by the fence where I was yelling for him.
“That’s for your birthday,” he said.
And me, a grown man, started tearing up in the middle of the crowd.
A kid from another team brought the ball back, and another parent made sure I got it.
I think it goes perfect with my new hat.
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