Pitching In

James: about to strike

Watching sport has never been my strength.  My father successfully taught me the rules of tennis and squash, but tried in vain to interest me in the rules of cricket.  Nobody bothered to teach me the laws of football or rugby, and I never bothered to find out.  My sport in life was to be travel, learning at 18 the rules of the Bavarian railway timetable and the pizza-sellers of Verona.

Alex: going for a strike.
There's a difference.

So it was with some trepidation last week that I sat down to learn the rules of Canadian baseball.  I was watching my eleven-year-old nephew bat, and my eight-year-old nephew pitch.  They are both fine players, and (along with their mother) did their best to explain it.  But it's complicated.  Here's my understanding of it: the pitcher pitches a ball to an allotted space in front of the hitter's body, which the hitter either strikes (a strike, surely?) or misses (becoming, if in the strike zone, an unstruck strike).  If he strikes, he can run to first base, but in certain circumstances that never became entirely clear he can walk.  A well struck strike may become a home run.  But three strikes, and he's out.  Unless the strike was a foul.  Overs may be unlimited, or limited.  My pleasure at sharing a slice of the life of my nephews was the former, my understanding of the game, the latter.

Baseball Dad Don, Baseball Mom Claire, Hitter James, Pitcher Alex,  Uncle John
Note which one of us looks confused. 

Later that evening, over pizza, we quietly swapped teams.  It was the boys' turn to learn my sport, as Henry and I shared the best photos from our adventures on the road.  Eyes popped at the sight of the blood on the Namibian lion's mane, James expressed reservations about Vietnamese hats, and Alex sized up the surf in Zanzibar.  They were pitching into our world of travel -- a sport I hope they may one day enjoy as much as the baseball that had so nearly defeated their uncle.

Words:  Uncle John
Pictures:  Uncle Henry