Take Me Out [Sigh] to the Ballgame : Baseball: A 9-year-old reminds his dad of what dreams and heroes are made of.

The boy didn’t make me do it directly. This crusty mid-40s dad was resolved to boycott major league baseball, as many others have, to send a message to the owners and players about last year’s strike and the seemingly endless labor strife that has taken the sport away from the fans.

No, my 9-year-old did it with the light in his eyes. The light that draws its energy from believing in a team, following the standings, charting the stats and having a hero or two to worship and emulate. A 9-year-old boy knows and believes in those things that make the word “Baseball” deserving of a capital B. It’s the indescribable, unquantifiable “stuff” that’s present on every sandlot and in great abundance in Cooperstown.

I’m his dad, so I may get his respect by an accident of birth. But a boy starts the transition to manhood when he selects for the first time a hero who’s not his dad. Mine was Duke Snider; Steven’s plays for the Angels.

So with much trepidation and internal consternation, I break my vow and take the boy to the day game against Texas. It’s all still there: a good seat, a hot dog, a cool drink. I expected it would be. Most teams have the merchandising down pretty well.

What else was there, was a boy and his dad having a great afternoon. Keeping score in the program. Guessing the strategy. Second guessing the umpires. Elation over the home runs and noting the infielders changing their defense in each situation. Two voices joining in song during the seventh-inning stretch. Steven took it all in. And I took him in as he did. The eyes were alight from the moment we left home until bedtime. It helped that his heroes won that day, but it would have been OK if they didn’t.

Baseball owes more to 9-year-olds than it can ever know or repay. They hear of strikes, contracts, fines, suspensions, anti-trust exemptions and the like. And you know what? They don’t care, because they don’t understand it. All they know is, it’s Baseball . . . it’s The Game. . . it’s a game a kid can play.

So yeah, I sold out. I paid the money and I’ll eat the betrayal of my vow to not attend a game in 1995. Why? Because Steven’s only going to be 9 once. And the leagues owe a big apology to all the kids who had the 1994 season taken away from them by the unholy trinity of players, owners and lawyers. Nobody ever wrote a song about an agent or a shrewd contract. But this day with my son, was worthy of every baseball song ever written.

It’s been said that God doesn’t subtract from your time on Earth the amount of time spent at baseball games. Our day at Anaheim Stadium was just such a day. Lord, add two hours and 18 minutes, and if you’re really merciful, the commuting time.