But this meeting of child and sport is not meant to be a brief encounter.
The baseball seed is a perennial, ready to bloom each April, no matter the age.
It is a game that father's pass down to sons and daughters. And it always seems to mirror our American life and work ethic. The game, like life, requires a little hustle, a lot of energy.
And so, this time of year, the baseball circle is joined again. Across the land on pristine green stadiums and dusty sandlots, a new season is welcomed with anticipation.
New and old muscles begin to stretch and unlimber. Players test their legs and arms. Some older players pass gently into coaching or just watching. But they are just as involved, because baseball is a game for the mind.
It is modestly paced, giving time for strategy and thought. We diligently keep score. After the play is over, it can be written down in logical numbers and kept forever.
And the fans, short for fanatics, take these games and numbers into their minds, to be recalled on cold winter days when summer is just a memory.
Because baseball is a game of memories. There are memories of gentle weather, a vendor's chant, a fastball that no one can touch, and yes, even spitting.
All will be taught to the next generation in countless conversations, telling how it was and how it is.
They'll talk of Bobby Thompson's shot heard round the world in 1951 and Willie Mays tracking down a fly ball that couldn't be caught, but it was.
It all leads to children, who say "Take me out to the ballgame."
And Dads, who can't wait to be asked.
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks, I don't care if I ever get back.