Thought I would share this novellaish story--it's mostly true.. Two Saturdays ago my 12 year old son had an early morning baseball game here on Long Island. In the way of background, my son plays on a small team that is not good and not bad, they lose more than they win. My son is very very good at the game and could play for almost any team he desires but he loves his friends and chooses to play with them. I like that. He is a boy's boy and loves video games, playing war, fighting with his brother, school, sports..oh and the Verty 30 (my newish 1990 325i Vert). He likes the Verty 30 even a bit more than our Porsche 997.2-he's young.
I woke my son up at 6am that morning and to say the least he was a bit boo booed up from staying up late playing videos games. After he reluctantly ate breakfast he ask me to put the top down on the Verty 30 for the 20 minute drive to the field. Although it was still in the low 50s, he insisted and I relented. The manual top was tucked away within minutes and were were off.
As we drove along, eastbound on the abnormally quiet LIE, at a very nice clip, the Verty 30 came to life all around us. The tappets quieted to a warm hum, the small 14 inch wheels bit into the asphalt and all was good. Just as the dark night started to let loose its cold damp fingers from the eager morning sun and those first virgin rays peeked over from the far edge of Long Island, I looked over at my son who was going on and on about some non-sense that only 12 years can speak. He was smiling with his blond hair thrashing around wildly, his arm was out the window punching into the rushing wind and as the sun took over his face I saw pure innocence in his deep azure eyes...in my BMW the Verty30.
Fast forward to the game. We were playing a team that we probably should not have been with on the same field. They were stacked with kids from all over the Island. We were losing late in the game by a run. However, our boys hung in there till the end and we were proud. It was the last inning and somehow two of our boys found their way on base and low and behold my son was up. At that moment, I really was not sure if I wanted him up with two outs and the game on the line. See, he takes the game too serious and has a tough time with failure. But there he was at the plate with two outs and the game on the line.
The team just moved up to the big 90' fields so the boys and my son are still adjusting. Indeed, my son looked so so small on that big field that I almost felt bad for him. His pants looked too big, his shirt was half in and half out, the bat looked like a Viking War club in his small but strong hands.
He steadied himself. Bat went back, hands went up, weight shifted to his back foot, bat became still, head pointed at the pitcher quietly, his huge beautiful blue eyes wide with great anticipation, he waited for what like felt an eternity. Then the pitcher finally let the ball loose from his finger tips. I watched the white and red sphere arc towards my son and my heart came alive.
As the ball closed on him his eyes narrowed and then he unleased violent beauty. His small hands dropped into the launch zone, his front foot made a slight but sure step in the direction of the pitcher. Then every sinew of muscle in his arms tensed and the war club began to make its arc directly at the ball. His face darkened for a brief second as he was about to absolutely violate every stich on the ball.
Then the beauty of baseball truly revealed itself to me. My sons eyes opened wide, the bat silently, swiftly and gracefully arced through the strike zone and for one millisecond seemed to grab the ball and launch it deep into the gap of the outfield. My son took off like an absolute lunatic, launched like a rocket from the right side batter's box, pure unfettered joy on his face as he ran without a care in the world toward me and first base. He appeared to almost float through the air as his legs moved like a blurr. Utter innocent
perfection. Complete passionate dedication to hitting....and he ran and he ran and ran all the way to third base to win the damn game. Wow, just wow.
We drove home in the Verty 30 and there was nothing in this world better, me, my son and the Verty 30.
I woke my son up at 6am that morning and to say the least he was a bit boo booed up from staying up late playing videos games. After he reluctantly ate breakfast he ask me to put the top down on the Verty 30 for the 20 minute drive to the field. Although it was still in the low 50s, he insisted and I relented. The manual top was tucked away within minutes and were were off.
As we drove along, eastbound on the abnormally quiet LIE, at a very nice clip, the Verty 30 came to life all around us. The tappets quieted to a warm hum, the small 14 inch wheels bit into the asphalt and all was good. Just as the dark night started to let loose its cold damp fingers from the eager morning sun and those first virgin rays peeked over from the far edge of Long Island, I looked over at my son who was going on and on about some non-sense that only 12 years can speak. He was smiling with his blond hair thrashing around wildly, his arm was out the window punching into the rushing wind and as the sun took over his face I saw pure innocence in his deep azure eyes...in my BMW the Verty30.
Fast forward to the game. We were playing a team that we probably should not have been with on the same field. They were stacked with kids from all over the Island. We were losing late in the game by a run. However, our boys hung in there till the end and we were proud. It was the last inning and somehow two of our boys found their way on base and low and behold my son was up. At that moment, I really was not sure if I wanted him up with two outs and the game on the line. See, he takes the game too serious and has a tough time with failure. But there he was at the plate with two outs and the game on the line.
The team just moved up to the big 90' fields so the boys and my son are still adjusting. Indeed, my son looked so so small on that big field that I almost felt bad for him. His pants looked too big, his shirt was half in and half out, the bat looked like a Viking War club in his small but strong hands.
He steadied himself. Bat went back, hands went up, weight shifted to his back foot, bat became still, head pointed at the pitcher quietly, his huge beautiful blue eyes wide with great anticipation, he waited for what like felt an eternity. Then the pitcher finally let the ball loose from his finger tips. I watched the white and red sphere arc towards my son and my heart came alive.
As the ball closed on him his eyes narrowed and then he unleased violent beauty. His small hands dropped into the launch zone, his front foot made a slight but sure step in the direction of the pitcher. Then every sinew of muscle in his arms tensed and the war club began to make its arc directly at the ball. His face darkened for a brief second as he was about to absolutely violate every stich on the ball.
Then the beauty of baseball truly revealed itself to me. My sons eyes opened wide, the bat silently, swiftly and gracefully arced through the strike zone and for one millisecond seemed to grab the ball and launch it deep into the gap of the outfield. My son took off like an absolute lunatic, launched like a rocket from the right side batter's box, pure unfettered joy on his face as he ran without a care in the world toward me and first base. He appeared to almost float through the air as his legs moved like a blurr. Utter innocent
perfection. Complete passionate dedication to hitting....and he ran and he ran and ran all the way to third base to win the damn game. Wow, just wow.
We drove home in the Verty 30 and there was nothing in this world better, me, my son and the Verty 30.
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