The Bull Who Taught Me Baseball

Every morning at 7 AM sharp, I reach for the little orange bottle on my kitchen counter. The vitamin inside — the same brand my father took for forty years — dissolves slowly under my tongue, a ritual as familiar as breathing. Dad always said health was the only wealth that truly mattered, though he had his own way of showing it.

I find myself thinking about him more often these days, especially when I watch my grandson practicing his pitching in the backyard. The boy's got his Great-Grandfather's stance — toes planted, eyes focused, shoulders squared toward an invisible batter. It takes me back to 1958, to the summer Dad taught me baseball using nothing but a length of rope and an old coffee can filled with rocks.

But the real teacher wasn't Dad. It was Bull, the family's prize Hereford who'd made himself comfortable behind the backstop at our farm's makeshift diamond. Bull had a peculiar habit: whenever I'd throw a particularly wild pitch, he'd snort with what sounded suspiciously like laughter, his massive head bobbing in approval when I finally found the strike zone.

Dad swore that bull understood the game better than most major league umpires. 'Watch how Bull studies you,' Dad would say, leaning against the fence post, calloused hands resting on his belt buckle. 'He's teaching you patience. The worst thing you can do in baseball — or life — is rush yourself.'

I didn't understand then. I was twelve, more interested in throwing harder than throwing smarter. But Bull's quiet presence became a kind of anchor. Week after week, season after season, that creature watched from his spot behind the plate, occasionally offering his opinion with a well-timed snort or a tail flick that meant 'try again.'

Last month, my grandson asked why I never corrected his pitching form. I told him about Bull. I told him how some lessons aren't spoken — they're absorbed through osmosis, through the quiet company of those who've seen it all before. The boy nodded slowly, as if something important had just clicked into place.

Now when I watch him pitch, I keep one eye on the strike zone and one on the old oak tree where Bull used to stand. And I smile, knowing that wisdom — whether it comes from a grandfather, a bull, or a simple vitamin taken faithfully each morning — has a way of traveling through generations, finding new life in unexpected places.