IF YOUR NAME IS WAGNER, SKIP THIS

Our pastor played Division I soccer. He and his wife still coach soccer. I don't want to hurt their feelings. So, Rob and Kathryn, please skip this entry.

Ok, now I know they'll read it. But I don't like to be negative about others' passions. Well, unless they deserve it. And in this case they don't.

This week we passed a great sports complex in the valley. A huge area, well attended to, in short a beautiful setting. I don't know much about acreage, that is I'm not a good judge, but I'd guess 10 acres total, and it's possible I missed it by 7, of lush fields.

Lots of kids playing ball, lots of parents watching and cheering. The problem: it was soccer. All soccer fields. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the day, the moments, the action.

But I kept wishing for baseball fields. The crack of the bats. I know; I'm old school. Bats don't crack until you get to the Majors. Instead they ping or plunk these days. But I'd even take those sounds, unnatural as they are instead of the sounds of soccer.

Kids in the sun, running the bases, throwing the balls, standing in the outfield waiting for a ball to be hit, sometimes hoping it wouldn't be hit to you. The catcher, digging the ball out of the dirt, throwing a dart, a perfect peg to second to get the player trying to steal a base.

The umpire, calling the game in his way. "Steek," instead of strike. Body movements, exaggerated on close plays. Kids on the bench trying to hide from managers or trying to get their attention. Trying to get in or out of the game depending on their confidence and who might be there to watch them play.

Instead, kids not able to use their hands, playing with a ball. Running and running and kicking and hardly ever scoring. All that work, all that expendable energy for naught.

I had to shake my head to clear it. It was like I was in Europe. Where was baseball? America's pastime. Or unfortunately America's Passed Time.