Baseball season hasn't started, but pre-season training has.
Most baseball teams practice and train in Arizona, and they'll play each other several times a week. Several times a week too often, if you ask me, but that's neither here nor there. I'm here, thank God I'm not there. Watching baseball, that is.
My father, even with his Alzheimer's, still enjoys seeing his favorite team play. The game is slow, with a lot of down time, so he doesn't get as confused as with other fast moving sports like bird-watching or chess.
We tried watching a soccer game one time, but we both lost interest. It was during the World Cup, and we fell for the hype.
"What's happening?" my father kept asking me.
"Well," I'd say, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as I could "one player is kicking the ball up the field and now another player is kicking the ball back down."
It's like basketball, with feet, I wanted to tell him, but that might be more information than he would care to process. Besides, in basketball, they really rack up the points, making the game more interesting to watch.
"What's happening now?"
"Nothing," I would tell him, watching the players do what they do the way they do it. The players--to me, at least--were all interchangeable. My father, bless his heart, was giving it his best.
"What's the score?" he'd want to know.
"Zero/zero," I'd tell him.
"Still?"
"Yeah, still."
He'd shift in the seat of his--my--favorite chair.
"How long have we been watching?" he'd ask.
"An hour." I'd answer.
"And they still haven't scored?"
"No."
He moved forward quickly. Well, as quickly as an old guy can manage.
"Hey, look! That guy got hurt!"
As soon as the refs made their call, the player got up and ran back to his place in the field.
"I guess not," my father said, disappointed.
I don't think he wanted anybody to get hurt, he only wanted something to happen. But nothing every did. What felt like hours later, the score was still zero/zero. We didn't even hang around for the traditional riots to take place.
Like I said, we gave it a shot.
But, back to baseball...
Most baseball teams practice and train in Arizona, and they'll play each other several times a week. Several times a week too often, if you ask me, but that's neither here nor there. I'm here, thank God I'm not there. Watching baseball, that is.
My father, even with his Alzheimer's, still enjoys seeing his favorite team play. The game is slow, with a lot of down time, so he doesn't get as confused as with other fast moving sports like bird-watching or chess.
We tried watching a soccer game one time, but we both lost interest. It was during the World Cup, and we fell for the hype.
"What's happening?" my father kept asking me.
"Well," I'd say, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as I could "one player is kicking the ball up the field and now another player is kicking the ball back down."
It's like basketball, with feet, I wanted to tell him, but that might be more information than he would care to process. Besides, in basketball, they really rack up the points, making the game more interesting to watch.
"What's happening now?"
"Nothing," I would tell him, watching the players do what they do the way they do it. The players--to me, at least--were all interchangeable. My father, bless his heart, was giving it his best.
"What's the score?" he'd want to know.
"Zero/zero," I'd tell him.
"Still?"
"Yeah, still."
He'd shift in the seat of his--my--favorite chair.
"How long have we been watching?" he'd ask.
"An hour." I'd answer.
"And they still haven't scored?"
"No."
He moved forward quickly. Well, as quickly as an old guy can manage.
"Hey, look! That guy got hurt!"
As soon as the refs made their call, the player got up and ran back to his place in the field.
"I guess not," my father said, disappointed.
I don't think he wanted anybody to get hurt, he only wanted something to happen. But nothing every did. What felt like hours later, the score was still zero/zero. We didn't even hang around for the traditional riots to take place.
Like I said, we gave it a shot.
But, back to baseball...
Because it's still training, his favorite team only plays two or three times a week. Stubborn as he is, my father wants to watch them play every day, and, the way my youngest daughter, when she was a toddler, used to like to listen to the same song "Fly Away" by FFH* over and over again, he doesn't understand why he can't.
"Again! Again!" my daughter used to say, but the DJ on the radio never listened.
"What do you mean they're not playing?" my Dad would complain when he couldn't find them on the costly baseball channel I pay for**.
"Again! Again!" my daughter used to say, but the DJ on the radio never listened.
"What do you mean they're not playing?" my Dad would complain when he couldn't find them on the costly baseball channel I pay for**.
But I'm not entirely heartless. I felt bad for the old gummer, and came up with a brilliant solution, even if I do say so myself. I record each of the games. On the days his favorite team doesn't play, I'll put on one of the recorded games for him.
He has watched the same game three times already, and, for him, every time is the first time. He has never caught on that he has already seen the game. It's like me, when I was a kid, and he used to take me to see the Harlem Globetrotters when they'd come to town***. It never occurred to me that every time they played, whether on the road or on TV, they were always playing the Washington Generals.
The other day, I heard him excitedly telling my wife, "Oh, man! This time they almost won!" My wife and I looked at each other and smiled.
It was the third time he had watched the same game.
Oh, well. Maybe they'll win the next time he watches it. You know, according to quantum physics, in an alternate universe, they already have.
He has watched the same game three times already, and, for him, every time is the first time. He has never caught on that he has already seen the game. It's like me, when I was a kid, and he used to take me to see the Harlem Globetrotters when they'd come to town***. It never occurred to me that every time they played, whether on the road or on TV, they were always playing the Washington Generals.
The other day, I heard him excitedly telling my wife, "Oh, man! This time they almost won!" My wife and I looked at each other and smiled.
It was the third time he had watched the same game.
Oh, well. Maybe they'll win the next time he watches it. You know, according to quantum physics, in an alternate universe, they already have.
Hmm, now that I think about it, life might be simpler with less brain cells.
********************
As I watch the news, I see that Steven Tyler of Aerosmith is a very old 67, and alive and dating Aimee Ann Preston, who is 28 years old.
Me? I'm a young mumble, mumble, mumble, and baby-sitting my father, who, at 97, is watching a certain baseball game...
...for the fourth time.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
*It's a Christian song, and, for those of you who think Christian music isn't any good, then you've obviously never heard "He Reigns" by The Newsboys or "I Can Only Imagine" by MercyMe or "O Praise Him" by The David Crowder Band.****
**I say costly, but there's a value to keeping my father entertained and out of my hair.
***Not really, but I like to tell my brother he did.
****Or "The Only Thing I Need" by 4Him.*****
*****Or, for those of you who like your rock & roll a little heavier, "Caroline" by Seventh Day Slumber.
****Or "The Only Thing I Need" by 4Him.*****
*****Or, for those of you who like your rock & roll a little heavier, "Caroline" by Seventh Day Slumber.
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