When I first stepped onto the diamond as a new father on paternity leave, the world seemed to shrink to the size of a baseball glove and a newborn’s giggle.
When Baseball Meets Bedtime
Jose Siri’s name popped up in the conversation as he made a spectacular defensive play for the Los Angeles Angels, a throw that combined instinct and raw power to snuff out a runner at home.
The Angels’ scouting department had flagged Carlos Cortes as a hitter who enjoys taking aggressive turns on the basepaths, a detail that added a layer of strategy to the game.
At home, my daughter, whom I call Derek Jr., began to reward me with her first smiles and laughs, tiny bursts of joy that turned ordinary moments into celebrations.
I captured one of those exchanges on video, a silent dialogue of eyes and mouth corners that felt like a home run in its own right.
To keep her comfortable in the car seat, I recite a series of rhymes that range from gentle persuasion to soothing verses for hiccups and gas, each line timed to her breathing.
She has a particular fondness for high-pitched beeping noises, the kind that remind me of R2-D2, and she seems to light up whenever I produce them.
Her very first laugh was a short, bright sound, the kind that made the corners of her mouth curl and her eyes sparkle, and I counted it as a victory.
Looking back, the thrill of a perfect throw on the field mirrors the delight of hearing that first laugh; both are moments where patience, timing, and a little bit of magic converge.