It’s America Day! and as I mentioned on our Twitter feed it’s the special time of year when I hide from my family and friends and watch baseball alone while drinking my secret stash of good beer while my family drinks PBR. I’m a generous host.
Many people wonder why I don’t write about baseball more. I enjoy baseball a lot it’s not because I have some secret vendetta against the sport, but my history with baseball is… unique.
When I was a child, I was a very gifted pitcher, by the time I was a teenager I was one of the best in the state. I started showing prowess for the sport at a very young age and as a result, my father took it upon himself to make sure I was going to be the best in the world. From around the age of seven up until high school I was outside every day until the sun went down throwing pitches trying to perfect my craft until my arm felt as though it had fallen off hours ago and I eventually crawled back to the house to eat a quick dinner before my father sat me down to go over everything I had done wrong in a series of videos and profanity fueled rants.
This would’ve all been fine if it weren’t for one minor detail, I hated playing baseball (still do, but I’m an adult now). I eventually gathered the courage to tell my father that I no longer wanted to play baseball. This was the first time my father kicked me out of the house. I was always allowed back, but this was merely the first in a series of ejections that would ultimately come to my final one later in life where I didn’t go back, but that’s another story for another day.
Baseball is a great sport. I enjoy watching it as much as possible. But baseball and I, have a strained relationship.