A Ballgame

Tonight there's a little boy in Cincinnati who will see his first ever baseball game. He'll leave the hospital in plenty of time to get to his heightened view of the goings on. They'll take him by wheelchair through the hospital halls and sterilized wings and out into a world that has not done him any favors. The firefighters, working on their own, will transport him like they do so very often after it seems he's gotten better and been able to go home. They'll make sure he'll get there in time to see the game.

He's learned a lot about the game in the past few weeks. His doctor has taught him everything he now knows. Though, for the doctor, he's had to relearn it himself. There were RBIs, homeruns, ERA, hits, singles, doubles, pitch counts, stolen bases, bunts, sacrifices, curveballs, fastballs and outs. There was a lot to learn for both of them, but they managed together. I know the doctor never forgot these things, never forgot the smell of the stadium, the way the ball sounds on the bat, or how to root for the home team -- I've been to a game with him. We were among the few standing when Pena hit that homerun over the right field wall in a losing effort. There are few better teachers of the game than him. Not spoiled by BABIP, OBP, SLG and a host of other acronyms that do much to increase my enjoyment of the game. There's just a bat, a ball, a glove and a game so great it's actually a wish for his patient. A wish. I wish for good health, we wish for good health; this boy wishes to see a baseball game.

This little boy, young and sick, will see the game from the owner's box, ensuring his health will keep him there for nine innings even if the players he now loves let him down. He'll watch pitch after pitch and ask question after question and eat hot dog after hot dog. His new Reds jersey will never shine brighter, nor ever be worn with so much pride by another soul in this world.

He'll get there in time to see the game. He'll watch baseball tonight. So will the doctor. So will thousands of other people. They'll see the same pitch, the same strike, the same hit, the same win. But they won't have the perspective he'll have. They won't look at the homerun, the single, the out like he will. They won't count the RBI's and the K's like he will, like he's been taught how to. We don't have the perspective he has. Baseball. For the first time.