Three children discover a little magic before bedtime.

I found this old video that we shot years ago when spending time with family. Originally intended as an exercise it was filmed somewhat on a whim while babysitting, with no real attention to video quality. Although it was never meant to be anything that looked amazing, I decided to polish it up a little and post it anyway. Big thanks to Brent who threw together the music.

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It was fun to reintroduce Deke into the comic strip this past little while. I’m hoping to use him more in the future. He is, after all family.

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So much complaining…

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I’ve always looked forward to one day having children of my own. I’ve spent many indulgent moments envisioning a dozen-or-so little Taylor children running around doing the types of things that a dozen-or-so Taylor children would do. They’ll probably be really good kids, I’ve told myself. I’m sure they’ll be highly creative and exceptional thinkers. They probably won’t ever fight with each other and they’ll always clean their rooms. And all of them will be born with the inherent ability to use the toilet because they know that Dad isn’t really excited about the whole diaper thing. I have such thoughtful kids.

I was struck by the musings of a gifted and talented writer not long ago, in which the author made oaths to the children she would have someday. Promises of love, time, and complete adoration. I found myself more emotional than I care to admit in a public forum. And while I can’t pretend to come anywhere close to matching the poetry of her words, thoughts of fatherhood have crept into my mind and lingered ever since. And while my dreams of a perfect and non-diaper-changing childhood for my progeny might not be entirely realistic (time will tell), I can’t help but wonder what characteristics these yet unknown children will one day possess.

Will they be like I was when I was a child, or will they become altogether unique?

Will they like to play games?

Will they find passion in creating?

Will they appreciate the intricacies and beauty of baseball?

Will they be inspired by great storytellers, innovators, spiritualists, and artists?

Will they watch Saturday morning cartoons? Will they let me join them?

Will they cherish their childhood and keep a part of it with them always?

Will they gaze into the heavens and ponder deeply?

Will they be too cool for me in high school?

Will they cling to simple truths and values?

Will they be kind?

Will they be loving?

Will I be able to teach them?

Will they choose to believe?

Can I be the kind of example my father was?

Will they wonder these types of questions for themselves?

I don’t know the answers. But I like to believe that somewhere out in the far reaches of time there are some future Taylor children who have many of the same questions. I hope they are as anxious to find out as I am.

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This is baseball. It’s not just a game played between a set of white chalk lines on a field. It’s not just a player throwing a ball, or another swinging a bat. It’s history. It’s community. It’s family. It’s generations.

In 1987 I watched my first baseball game with my father. As a transplant to the area, my father had never watched a lot of baseball. But our local team was in the playoffs and he got swept up in the excitement like everyone else. Community. It was the first time I had ever watched a baseball game. Dad explained the rules. 3 strikes, 3 outs, 9 innings, top and bottom. We cheered and we rooted and we watched in dismay when our team lost, ending their season, and ours.

From that moment on, we were rabid fans of the game. But it wasn’t just about the game. It was about our mutual passion for our team. Our love for the game. It was about the time we spent together. Family.

Our team would make the playoffs, and even go to the World Series a couple of times. But every year they would come up just short of winning it all. And Dad was suddenly stricken with cancer, much, much too young.

In the final year of his life, our team would enter the playoffs one last time. I watched each game breathlessly, having fooled myself  into believing that if our team could somehow just keep winning, then maybe Dad could hold on just a little longer. Maybe miracles would happen, both on the field and in our lives. Our team lost in the first round, 3 games to 1 that year. About a month later, Dad was gone. Our team had not been to the post season since.

Before he died, I asked my dad about his loyalty to our team. I asked him when it was that he became a true follower of our franchise, and a fan of the game. “I never watched baseball growing up,” he responded simply. “I just started getting into it because you liked it so much.” That was Dad. That is baseball.

Our team finally won the World Series this year. I wonder if the players have any idea what this means to so many of us. As I watched the game and those final victorious outs, I stood in the same room where I watched my first baseball game with Dad so many years ago, the same room in which he passed away. This time the tears were of joy.

Someday I will have children of my own. I will teach them about the game. I will teach them that there are 3 strikes, 3 outs, 9 innings, top and bottom. I will teach them to be loyal to their team, even when they lose. And they will learn as I did, that baseball is more than just a game. That it’s about communities and families and generations.

Thank you Dad, for the gift of baseball. And thank you baseball, for the gift of my father. I love you both.

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