You’re probably not surprised that my two young sons are into sports. Lots of kids are.
My sons, ages 6 and 8, both play soccer and lacrosse. They love playing those sports and hanging out with their friends. They also love playing football in the back yard and basketball in the driveway and tend to watch every Ravens game with their mom.
Until the last year, baseball hadn’t particularly been on their radar.
When I first typed that last sentence, it was prefaced with “but for some reason.” I quickly dismissed it because we all know the reason. The Orioles weren’t good. My kids weren’t talking about the Orioles with their friends. They weren’t connecting with the team and they weren’t connecting with the sport. In hindsight, it isn’t at all surprising.
This year, the boys are so invested in baseball that they walk around my house fighting with each other about which of them “gets to be Santander.” Or Adley. Or Félix. Or Gunnar (they LOVE Gunnar). Or Cedric. Or Hays. They’re not preparing for a baseball game. They’re just taking on the identity of their favorite player for a bit. They’re that invested.
We recently took a (mostly) annual family vacation to Bethany Beach. Upon our arrival, my boys began their routine.
“You got to be Santander last time! It’s my turn to be Santander! He made that catch against the Royals!”
(We were at the “Super Hero Day” game against the Royals this season when Santander made the spectacular grab against the wall to rob Maikel Garcia. It was the day I fully recognized the boys’ love affair with the team, as when I asked my son if he’d like to meet Black Panther he said, “I’d rather stay and watch the game.”)
As the boys fought over who would be mentally cosplaying as which Oriole, they asked if we could actually play baseball on the beach. I took a quick detour over to the CVS across the street and picked up a $10 wiffle ball set and came back so that the five of us (wife and mother-in-law included) could play wiffle ball on the beach. The way I once pretended to be Mike Devereaux or Cal Ripken or Brady Anderson while playing with my friends, the boys did the exact same.
The story would have been sweet enough for me had it ended there. But it didn’t. Each day after that, the boys would get out of the ocean and ask if we could play wiffle ball again on the beach. Feet burning, sand in all of our crevices, an angry sun lighting our necks on fire, we were playing wiffle ball. On Day 2, we started to attract a crowd. By midweek, our games were like a scene from “The Sandlot.” Kids came and went. We didn’t keep score. But little boys and girls wandered over to be a part of our wiffle ball game.
The first little boy to join in that week was by far the most excited. He came over, asked to be a part and immediately started crushing the ball to deep center field. After a minute, his father came over and said, “Thanks for letting him play, I’m sorry he doesn’t know much English.”
I hadn’t even noticed that this 9-year-old boy, Emile, was a native French speaker. He and my sons had connected immediately through the language of baseball. When we paused our game, the boys wandered back into the ocean together. Emile’s 13-year-old brother Nicolas, whose English was a bit better but still minimal, joined them. They boogie boarded together. They threw footballs to each other. They dove into the swimming pool together. They bonded over super heroes and pro wrestlers that they liked. And they came back to play more wiffle ball.
My wife and I spent more time chatting with their parents, Max and Mary. The family had traveled to Bethany from Quebec because growing up, Max had family of his own in D.C. and had visited Ocean City a number of times. We learned about each others’ cultures. We ended up spending more time together. We went out for dinner and the boys had their first-ever steamed crabs together and we taught their parents about the joys of cream of crab soup. We spent most of the last few days of our respective trips together, watching our boys huddle together and nurture friendships.
As parents, we were so moved by all of it. It was just so pure and genuine and beautiful. It created a core memory, if not somehow for our boys than most certainly for us as parents. It was the best family vacation we’ve ever taken.
And none of it would have happened without this magical Orioles season that has left my sons so wildly enamored.
I’m eternally grateful. And I look forward to seeing what future core memories are unlocked as my boys’ love affair with this team continues.
Photo Credit: Margaret Clark