I offered to buy him a new baseball glove but he turned me down. The store models were stiff and difficult to close. He wanted to use his brother's glove. A time tested piece of worn black leather. He thought it had magic. He had watched his fourteen year old brother roam the field with the speed and agility of a cat. He thought it would transform his stubby short nine year old body into the well oiled biological machine of a major leaguer. I smiled knowing what he thought. I also smiled dreaming that someday it might be true.

First we had to get by his first baseball tryout. There is not much pressure on the kids. Everyone makes a team. Some get picked by the best coaches to be on the best teams. Others get lucky and are picked by a coach that still thinks baseball should be fun. For the most part the boys, and yes girls, are just hoping to be selected by a coach that by chance picked a friend of theirs. To nine year olds, Little League is a social event that is better done with the moral support of your best buddy.

To fathers, baseball tryouts are a test. We think it shows the world what we, as baseball men, are made of. We believe our child's baseball prowess will earn us a call to the big leagues. That after seeing nine year old James run down an elusive fly ball a visiting baseball executive will call the Atlanta Braves. He will immediately demand that James' father be made director of player personnel.

Fathers believe that because they know the secret. The secret of Little League baseball is that to teach our offspring to play well we have to be baseball geniuses. It takes a genius because these kids are not the product of the players we were in our memories. They are the creation of the players we really were. We didn't always get in front of the ball. We didn't always catch with two hands. We took third strikes looking. As pitchers, we couldn't throw hard enough to break glass. As hitters, we couldn't drive the ball past second base on our bicycle let alone a bat.

Now years later we watch our children at their first tryout and our imperfections are forgotten. We cringe when they miss a fly ball. We moan when their throw is offline. We turn and squirm while they bat. We avoid the eyes of the other father's when they make a mistake. We wait for approval of other parents when they do well. We forget that they are just little boys and girls wanting to have fun.

The tryouts are over. He did great. He caught three out of three flys. He stopped all the ground balls. He even hit a couple through the infield. It was now time for speculation. "So, you did pretty good" I said proudly. He answered, "I guess". "What team do you think we'll get on?" I asked. Silence, I looked at him and he looked at me. He was deep in thought. Then the words came. "Dad?" "Yes?" I was anticipating his thoughts. Would he realize how well he did? If he guessed one of the good teams would draft him I'd have my answer.

Then he spoke. "Can we go to Dairy Queen?" That was the answer. He didn't know and didn't care who he played for. A team, any team would pick him. He'd get to play baseball on a real team like his brothers. He would get the time that Dad only sets aside for practicing baseball. But most of all he would get to go to Dairy Queen.

Even if it meant listening to his father tell him the right way to eat a cone.

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