Hey sport

In case you didn’t know, I’m not a sports guy. Never have been. I know what you’re thinking: “But Jeff, you have such a ripped, awesome physique I would’ve thought you’d been playing sports all your life.”

First of all, thank you for noticing. And second, no.

But for some reason, once a year, during the World Series, I become an armchair fan. Especially when it’s the Dodgers v. Yankees.

Suddenly, I’m an expert on when and when not to take a swing. Miraculously I can call the pitches better than the umpires. I’m even starting to be fluent in the players’ names.

Then again, “Mookie” is kind of hard to forget.

I don’t go as far as wearing the team jersey, but I do yell at the tv from the comfort of my reading chair.

The cruel tease of my career (laughing for using the word “career”) is that at every agency I ever worked at without exception, I was always the copywriter who got assigned the sports tie-ins for clients. It's safe to say the most research I ever did for anything was going to the glossary for whatever sport I was writing about so I could speak in the language of the realm.

I do however love movies about baseball. Major League, A League of Their Own, The Natural, Moneyball, Bull Durham, The Rookie and, of course, Field Of Dreams.

For seven games a year, if the series goes that long, I’m all in.

When it comes to this post, it's the bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. So instead of some snappy line or bad joke about covering the bases, I’ll leave you with my favorite speech ever about the sport, courtesy of the late, great James Earl Jones.

Now if I could just get the wife to bring me a Dodger dog.

The early signs

When my son was younger, much younger, I gave him a set of children's story books my parents had given me. Bound and colorful (the books, not my son), they were filled with the classic stories we've all grown up with. The set of books sits on his dresser, which is what he happened to be cleaning last night as he decided to attack the living ecosystem that is his room.

Going through the books, tucked between Little Red Riding Hood and Jack The Giant Killer, he discovered a couple of handwritten pages. The big surprise is that they were handwritten by me, a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

When he brought them out to me, there are two things I noticed right away. First, not bad handwriting for a 5th or 6th grader. And second, that short, clever, memorable headline that brings a smile to your face and tells the whole story in six carefully chosen words:

Pitcher Throws Himself Out of Baseball

I have some vague recollection of writing for my elementary school newspaper. And because, once again God proves he has a sense of humor, I was assigned to write about sports. In this case, the self-imposed retirement of Sandy Koufax.

It's hard to pinpoint when we first display a knack for what we'll be doing later on in our adult life. Whether it's growing up to be a fireman, doctor, politician or Dexter, the early signs may go undetected until the potential is realized.

Also, I never set out to be a writer. I was a Hollywood kid - I wanted to be an actor. I just didn't want it enough.

But it's funny where we wind up, and interesting to look back and see that even then, maybe, I had a bit of a knack for it.

The other thing I like about it is my son now has a bit of dad history as keepsake. It's not digital. He can hold it in his hands.

Perhaps years from now, after I'm long gone, late at night when he's thinking about me, he'll take it out, slowly read it, and with a slight smile on his face and a tear on deck, sigh deeply and think the only thought he can have about his old man after reading it.

"I can't believe they wanted him to write about sports."