Hurd By The Bay

I broke down recently and finally bought a digital camera. Used it recently, too. Took more than two dozen pictures on a recent vacation trip and came away feeling competent --- huge news in my world, really, because I get along with modern technology about as well as Pete Rose befriends the truth.

Besides, I missed the money shot, the one that would've captured a moment that's become as much a part of the American experience as road rage and school massacres.

"That kid has got a great arm," a Carolinian native said to me while my almost 7-year-old, Clayton unleashed cannon after cannon while throwing a baseball with me on the white sands at Carolina Beach, North Carolina. "You looking into a coach for him yet?"

Say cheese!

Now look, my intent here is not to embarrass the soul who mentioned this not-so-bright idea to me. To paraphrase one of my favorite people, he knows not what he speaks. And by point of fact, the kid does have a great arm. Through no reason other than some good genes on his grandfather's side of the family, Clayton Hurd throws the ball with an accuracy and velocity that's rare for kids his age (last week, he threw 31 mph at a Durham Bulls game; his 41-year-old ol' man, by comparison, lit up the gun at 32).

But a personal coach? Already? Before he's even lost an upper tooth?

Have we, as a society, really become that sick?

Gosh, I'd like to think not. Sports occupies a large part of my soul, and has since I was sharing a dugout bench with Vida Blue's son, Derrick, in tee-ball. I can honestly say that every impactful event in my life --- most of them good, a couple downright awful --- was shaped by the way sports taught me how to view the world.

To me, the sports stage is a place where a dignified, quiet black man could receive a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking the record of a white man (thanks, Henry Aaron). It's not the place where a disgraceful, boastful man of any color goes through the motions to prep for his reality show on VH1 (no thanks, T.O.).

To me, a man who scores a touchdown and flips the ball quietly to the ref deserves far more aplomb than the one who yanks out his cell phone to tell everybody he just did his job.

And to me, individual glory is the last thing one should be seeking when he goes between the white lines, because as we all are taught (or should be) the first time we lace up the sneakers: Any individiual glory worth having will only be more satisfactory should it come as the by-product of what the team did. Read that in a book detailing John Wooden's achievements. I think I'll take that ol' man's wisdom over anything Shaq may want to impart.

Unfortunately, most of these thoughts probably make me an alien in the sports world. Sports is big corporate business, and the movers and shakers are younger and younger. That's not lost on me; in fact, I'm as guilty as anyone. I wrote this blog even as I glimpsed stories of the Little League World Series and eyed a Sports Illustrated cover with 16-year-old prodigy Bryce Harper featured on the cover.

But just because things are a certain way doesn't mean that's the way they ought to be. Ask Josh Hamilton if all that hype surrounding his talent as an 18-year-old was healthy. Ask Jennifer Capriati. Wait a few more years, then ask Freddy Adu.

All of which is to say, no, my son does not have a personal coach. Not yet. Kid's got quite a few more years to decide if he wants one. In the meantime, I'm gonna encourage him to pursue all his other hobbies. He loves photography. Perhaps he can show me a thing or two.