General: Bonding through baseball

Much like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, baseball and I have had an on-again, off-again, relationship for most of my 32 years.

Unlike Hollywood's most divorced couple, however, baseball and I have been able to work through the tough times.

It all started innocently enough when I saw my first California Angels game at the age of six.

I don't know if it was the aroma of the hot dogs, the sight of a perfectly manicured "lawn," or the effortless play of Rod Carew, but I was hooked.

Just three years later, I was playing in my first little league game, and although the uniform was different from what I had seen the pros wear -- a T-shirt with my teams name on it (it just had to be the dreaded Dodgers) and a pair of Toughskins -- I was a ballplayer.

Even though that first year could hardly be described as baseball (me, a left-hander, playing the hot corner?), my life felt complete.

It's in the genes

What I didn't know at the time was that I was destined to dominate the diamond.

My grandfather, who passed the sports obsession gene on to me, was quite an athlete in his own right.

One of our family's stories of lore is that Grandpa, living in Chicago in the mid-'30s, had actually made the Chicago Cubs roster, but broke his ankle when one of the coaches showed him how to slide "correctly."

That slide effectively ended his (surely) Hall of Fame baseball career.

Twenty-five years later, my uncle spent his teenage years blowing fastballs past unsuspecting hitters in an ultra-competitive San Fernando Valley Pony League.

As a third-generation baseball player, the die had been cast, and I set out to achieve greatness.

Whether it was knowing the family history or actually seeing some potential, my grandpa had became my unofficial private hitting instructor.

Many a weekend was spent in the backyard, taking practice swing after practice swing, with constant instruction from Grandpa.

"Keep your elbow up! Don't let your head move! Stride toward the pitcher!" -- All the basic fundamentals of being a good hitter.

His instruction definitely showed, as for the next several years my skills improved and I began dominating the local little leagues.

Grandpa was a hothead and a little distant from the rest of the family, but my success on the diamond seemed to bring us closer together. Finally, we had something we could talk about.

Sometimes it was often difficult to tell who was the 11-year-old and who was the 66-year-old, as Grandpa's face would light up like a kid again whenever I wanted to talk shop.

It gave a shy grandson and stand-offish grandfather a chance to get to know each other and really experience the meaning of bonding.

But, life is short, and Grandpa's life was shorter than it should've been.

After two major heart attacks and cancer coursing through his body faster than a Nolan Ryan heater, our days of working on my swing in the back yard were short lived and he died when I was 12.

Make Him Proud

I continued to play baseball, and I continued to do well.

I developed earlier than the other kids, and was able to dominate nearly every league I played in.

I was even invited to join a team that was going to travel to Hawaii for a tournament, and even though we never got past Santa Barbara, just knowing I was good enough made me proud.

My baseball career continued through high school, and I even got a couple starts on the varsity team as a freshman.

However, when high school ended, so did my baseball career, which had taken a back seat to things like girls and college.

Now, as I get ready to acknowledge the 20-year anniversary of Grandpa's death, I always wonder what I could've done had he been around long enough to tutor me through my later teenage years.

Who knows, maybe I could've fulfilled the destiny that a broken ankle stole from him 60 years earlier.