Matthew Taylor: A trip with my son to remind me what baseball is all about

It's been a tough week in Birdland. It's times like these when I think irrational thoughts, like wondering if being a baseball fan is worth the aggravation. The ballpark trip I took with my son last weekend reminds me that it's about more than the outcome of games. Here's the story of the first of what I hope will be many annual summer baseball trips together:

With the final out of an early half-inning having been recorded, the Chattanooga Lookouts' promotions announcer sprung into action, leaping atop the visitor's dugout and sharing word that it was time to throw out squishy balls to the most enthusiastic fans. My son would probably forget about the small, corporate-logo-emblazoned baseball by morning, if not sooner. Nevertheless, I was determined to get him one. It seemed like the dad thing to do.

I stood with my son's box of stale, minor league popcorn in my left hand and waved my free arm to demonstrate the requisite enthusiasm. The popcorn box remained in my off hand as I spotted the long awkward flight of a mini foam ball thrown vigorously into the humid Tennessee night. This one was catchable.

I lurched to the right, arm outstretched overtop my son, and grabbed at the ball. My grab quickly turned into a bobbling routine that provided everyone around me with renewed appreciation for the night's featured ballpark entertainment. Juggler Josh Horton tossed around baseballs, bats, bowling pins and even swords with greater ease than I handled one tiny squishy baseball. And unlike me, he didn't drop anything.

The squishy ball pinballed between the seatback and chair in the empty spot to my left. A fan on the opposite side of the seat picked the ball up and handed it to me without hesitation so I could give it to my son. Ballpark etiquette says you give the baseball - even the cheap, promotional kind - to the nearest kid. I felt more sheepish than triumphant about the acquisition, but I appreciated the kind assist from a stranger.

Prior to my juggling routine, we visited the team store. The ballpark itinerary any time there's a five-year-old in tow includes a souvenir purchase along with multiple stops at the concessions stand. Bathroom trips tend to be spontaneous and often coincide with the best game action.

The Lookouts list former players who have appeared in the majors on a display inside their team store. Normally, this type of list provides me with an occasion to search for guys with Orioles connections. Instead, I got stuck on the names of an impressive group of players that this former Cincinnati Reds and Los Angeles Dodgers affiliate claimed as its own. Joey Votto, Johnny Cueto, Jay Bruce, Clayton Kershaw, Yasiel Puig. Little did I know that former Lookout Drew Stubbs would become my Orioles connection just days later.

After we returned to our seats, I started thinking about those players again. An observation came to mind from the John Feinstein book "Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life in the Minor Leagues of Baseball." Feinstein, writing of Triple-A ball, noted how difficult it is to manage at that level because no one wants to be there. I assumed the same logic must apply to some degree for a Double-A team like the Lookouts.

Everyone has somewhere else they want to be. The players want to be promoted. Meanwhile, the woman next to me couldn't wait to be at a Tennessee Volunteers football game. (For her sake, I hope it wasn't on Thursday night.) And my son, well, he wanted to be back at the hotel.

We negotiated a deal to leave once the fifth inning ended. Suddenly, my son, who is still learning the game, had no problem counting outs and knowing exactly when the inning was over.

There's a scene from the final season of "Mad Men" where Don Draper romanticizes the association between chocolate bars and a father's love for his son. It's part of a pitch meeting to Hershey's executives. He says that everyone has their own story to tell and then goes in on a fable about his father tousling his hair after rewarding him for cutting the grass with a chocolate bar purchase. "Forever, his love and the chocolate were tied together," Draper says.

My son and I enjoyed Hershey's bars in our room before calling it a night. I had envisioned eating ice cream from a miniature baseball helmet at the ballpark. Instead, we paid too much money for chocolate bars at the hotel. Of course, I let him eat the whole thing. Once more, it seemed like the dad thing to do.

We joked about the Lookouts' team name and logo as we finished up our snack. I stood up, grabbed the squishy baseball off of the TV stand, and threw it toward my son on the bed.

"Lookout," I said.

He laughed, and we took turns repeating the spontaneous routine.

There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

Matthew Taylor blogs about the Orioles at Roar from 34. Follow him on Twitter: @RoarFrom34. His ruminations about the Birds appear as part of MASNsports.com's season-long initiative of welcoming guest bloggers to our site. All opinions expressed are those of the guest bloggers, who are not employed by MASNsports.com but are just as passionate about their baseball as our roster of writers.