Reflections on growing up, growing old, coming back

Years ago, some dude and his wife knocked on my door. Guy must have been in his late 50s, maybe early 60s. Bearded. Glasses. Just a regular looking guy.

I opened the door, and he introduced himself, and told me he grew up in my house, and was back in town and wanted to show his wife. He asked if he could come in.

Now, I was immediately of two minds on this.

Mind one: Yeah, sure, come on in.

Mind two: These two people are credit card swindling serial murderers and the end was near.

“Sure, come on in!” I said.

I mean, if they were credit card swindling serial murderers, they could’ve just done me dirty once I opened the door, so whatever.

As it turns out, nice couple, not the murdering type.

I took them on the two-minute tour of the 1,600 square feet, he loved seeing the fact we kinda-sorta finished the attic as he said that was his childhood bedroom — just a wood floor, basically — and they went on their way and that was that.

Last weekend, I didn’t have to do the same to show my wife, or my kids, what my childhood home looked like, entirely because my parents — celebrating their 55th wedding anniversary today — have resisted the senior siren call of Florida.

They have remained in the same home they bought in 1972.

Sure, a few things have changed — my bedroom has been converted into a doublebunk bed situation for grandchildren to sleep over — but really, not much else has changed.

Heck, my old dresser and bookshelf are still in the room, holding the same stuff I piled in there in 1980.

We were up visiting to halfcelebrate the anniversary, to half-celebrate my mom’s upcoming birthday, to fully celebrate seeing family we haven’t seen since before the COVID-19 pandemic.

It was nice.

But the nicest part — the part that kind of smacked me upside the head — was watching my son put on a baseball glove and have a catch with his cousin.

Understand: My son is absolutely not a baseball player. Tried it, hated it, never went back.

When I was a kid, I lived, breathed, and died baseball. The game was all I ever thought about.

And my backyard was ground zero of my baseball life.

Every day we’d play back there — me and Scott, and Alex, and Neil, and J.P., and Big Brian, and Little Brian, and Big Brian’s cousin Keith in the summer when he’d come up from Florida.

And when we weren’t playing — Wiffle bat and tennis ball, 120 feet from home plate to the fence — I was out there playing full games in my mind, tossing the ball against the house.

And I mean full games: I would pitch — pitch-by-pitch — and announce the “action.”

And this wasn’t some dopey 10-year-old; I really knew my stuff.

So much so — and this is insane to type — my elderly neighbor would sit outside and listen to me call these “games.” (The Mets would invariably win.)

But yeah: Being back at my childhood home, watching my kid throw the ball, thinking back to those afternoons (and mornings, and evenings) spent out there doing the same exact thing … well, it does take you back.

Glad I didn’t have to knock on a stranger’s door is I guess what I’m trying to say.