Monday, July 21, 2008


It's been an exciting 48 hours in The Common Man's fiefdom. First, The Common Man successfully turned 30 the other day, making him far more common than before. It was a good day. It began, as many days do, with The Common Man getting up with The Boy, taking him downstairs for breakfast, and making coffee for The Uncommon Wife. When The Uncommon Wife needs her coffee to be so uncommon, and so The Common Man doesn't mind helping her recharge her batteries.

Anyway, after church and mowing the lawn (The Common Man does love mowing the lawn), the family drove to beautiful minor-league-baseball-ville to catch a ball game. The home team, frankly, was terrible. They couldn't hit, pitch, throw to the right base, or tie their shoes without help. Still and all, it was baseball, The Boy behaved and had fun, and the "K-Man" struck out 3 times (2-for-1 beers each time!). The Common Man had seats behind the plate and sat next to the scouts (who really weren't in the mood to talk).
And, following the tragic final atbat, as Johnny Notaprospect struck out with his bat on his shoulder, The Common Man got to run the bases with The Boy for the first time.

And at that point, The Common Man realized something. Even though he (at 30, and never playing organized ball above Babe Ruth League) and his son (at 20 months) can find their way to the right bases, and the 20-23 year olds of this team can't find the right bases to run and throw to, The Common Man's dreams of playing pro ball need to die. There simply is no call these days for a 30 year old, doughy white rookie on a baseball team.
29, maybe. But at 30 some dreams need to die so you can focus on how much fun it is to run the bases with someone who may, some day, have those same dreams. So that you can enjoy watching him try to run between the bases, stomping his little feet, and can feel his sweaty hand holding yours for literal and figurative support. And so that you can help him pick himself up when he trips over second base, and point him in the right direction when he gets up and is a little unsure where third base is. And so you can feel his pride when he stomps on homeplate, and can lift him onto your shoulders in triumph. It was a good day.

And when The Common Man returned home, he learned something equally important. 30 candles on a tiramisu is a fire hazard. Take note.

Back to our regular schedule tomorrow morning.


Anonymous said...

did you give the boy chewing tobacco for his first trip around the bases?


The Uncommon Wife said...

If you ask me, a tiramisu with 30 candles can only be freakin' amazing. And maybe a fire hazard.

The Common Man said...

@ Mark

No, good friend, tobacco is not allowed on the minor league field or dugouts by order of Major League Baseball. The Common Man felt obliged to obey the rules and not, you know, get his son hooked on snuff at the age of 20 months. Not, by the way, that the rule is either enforced or followed by minor league players, managers, and umpires.

@ Uncommon Wife
The Common Man does not contend that the tiramisu was not awesome. Or delicious. In fact, it was both. That said, it clearly denoted a fire hazard and almost gave you 3rd degree burns as you attempted to light all 30 candles with a Bic lighter.

The Uncommon Wife said...

Fair enough. Next time I will consider flame-proof hand protection because getting 40 candles on a tiramisu is really going to be a bitch.