September 17, 2003
Blake

“In the show even the batting practice balls are white.”   (Bull Durham) 

    It’s true.   Crash Davis didn’t lie, the BP balls at Coors are as white as if they were on the shelf at Gene Taylor’s.  A short time ago I knew nothing about batting practice. Today I’m an expert, thanks to Blake Benedetti a young man who, besides being the world’s biggest baseball fan, is also one of four living examples of how blessed I am in life.  Blake, age 6, is my grandson.

    Recently the Blakester and I hung for an afternoon Giants game at Coors Field.  Blake lives on Mercer Island, near Seattle, so you’d expect him to be a diehard Mariners fan and indeed he is up to date on Ichiro and his mates.  But the Colorado Rockies, “You know Grandpa, they play on Blake Street” are number one in his world.

     The first pitch was scheduled for one but we headed for Coors Field at ten thirty in the morning.  Blake knew the gates opened at eleven and he was determined to be early for batting practice and get a “major league” baseball to call his own.

    Once inside the “friendly confines”, he wasted little time in getting down close to the field.   Earlier in the week, at a Marlins game, Blake quickly realized six year olds were at a serious size disadvantage in trying to catch balls hit into the stands.  The big guys behind the fence in left caught everything before the little people had a chance.    

     So Blake changed his pattern.  He decided “up close and personal” was the optimum way to score a ball. And indeed it took no more than five minutes to strike pay dirt.  “Hey Mister twenty-three, may I have a ball, please!” he called out to the closest player.  Responding to those plaintive pleas of a six-year-old, Rockies catcher, Charles Johnson, shagging flies in left, jogged over to the stands and placed a ball in my grandson’s outstretched official purple Rockies mitt.  Blake gasped “Thanks sir,” turned and almost floated up the steps to show me his very own ball.  Grinning from ear to ear he kept repeating, “This ball is major league, Grandpa” making sure I didn’t confuse it with some run of the mill Wal-Mart model.

     With Blake’s success another youngster, about his age but wearing a Giants cap, wandered down to the field hoping to duplicate my grandson’s success.  But the Rockies were heading for the clubhouse as the Giants wandered on the field.

      Blake and his new friend stood side-by-side gawking and talking baseball when a San Francisco Giant, number 43, strolled over.  “You’re a Giants fan, here” he said to the youngster in the Giants hat and handed him a ball.  “I’m a Giants fan too,” Blake timidly offered.  “Well”, replied the smiling number 43 eyeing Blake’s Rockies hat, Rockies T-shirt and purple Rockies ball glove, “You’re dressed pretty funny to be Giants fan.”  

    Instead of returning to the field the Giants player stayed to visit with the two young fans

     “How old are you guys?”  “Six” they replied in unison.

     “I’ve got a boy almost your age, he’s five and his brother is three.”

      “Do you play catch with your boys?”  Blake inquired.  “I sure do.” replied 43.

      “Gee” said my grandson, “Your boy gets to play catch with a major leaguer.”

       “Well” smiled the Giant, “I won’t always be in the big leagues, but I’ll always be their Dad.  So they just play catch with Dad.”

      Blake was getting bolder.  “Can we see your glove?”

     “Sure,” replied 43 and handed his Rawlings mitt over for examination by the wide-eyed youngsters.

      ‘What’s this?” asked Blake pointing to printing on the thumb of the glove.  “That’s my name,” said 43, “when I leave my glove somewhere on the field people know who it belongs to.”

      “When you lose your glove do they call your Mom?” said Blake’s new friend.  “No” smiled 43 “She lives too far away so they just leave it for me in the dugout.”

    Then adults spoiled the visit. “Hey Scott, sign these,” ordered an older fan holding a fistful of baseball cards.    Number 43 turned out to be Scott Eyre, a Giants relief pitcher.

     “Didn’t I sign for you yesterday?” replied Eyre.  “I‘ve gotta go eat” He looked at the two boys, “Have fun today, guys” and headed to the dugout.

     “What a jerk,” said the adult loud enough for the player to hear.  Welcome to the world of a professional athlete I thought.

    But what a memorable day we shared at Coors. Someday, far in the future, Blake may take his grandson to a ballgame and explain, “My grandpa and I once went to a game and I got a ball and talked to a real major leaguer.”