Swinging Into the Throws of Summer

Here we are, the boys of summer, listening to Vin Scully singing on the radio as we work in the yard on one of those days that starts out great and then gets better. A California day, sunny beyond belief.

“Two balls, two strikes,” Scully croons, providing the soundtrack to our summer. “Karros due up next.”

As Scully sings, the boy and I keep working, preparing the yard as if for a wedding, trying to make things perfect, which isn’t easy in this overgrown jungle.

“Look, Dad, I’m working,” the boy says proudly.

“Someone get a camera,” I say.

We work for 30 minutes, then take 30 off, then work 30 minutes more. It’s a grueling pace but somehow we are able to maintain it.

“Time for a break?” the boy says five minutes too soon.

“Sure,” I say.

So we flop in the shade and plan our summer of backyard projects, the things we will putter around at and never really finish.

The new garden. The Adirondack chair. The outdoor den.

“What’s an outdoor den?” the boy asks.

“A den that’s outdoors,” I explain.

“With big recliners?” he asks.

“And a 12-foot TV,” I say.

“A pool table?” he asks.

“Maybe some slot machines,” I say.

If we plan it right, our outdoor den will even have an outdoor kitchen, like the ones you see in Sunset magazine, with stainless steel sinks and pizza ovens and slate counter tops you just rinse with the garden hose when you’re done.

The boy could make his sandwiches here. Like a lot of guys, he is good with sandwiches--gigantic loaves, big as footballs, filled with the finest materials. Ham. Salami. Whole chickens.

“You could make your sandwiches out here,” I tell him.

“I could?”

“You’ll be the I.M. Pei of bologna,” I say.

“Then we could stay outside all the time,” the boy says.

“Exactly,” I say.

I look around the backyard. It’s a nice spot for a den. Sun filters through the olive trees. Birds are everywhere. Off to the side, two sparrows are talking. One keeps looking shyly at his feet, like Hugh Grant. In the corner, there’s some poison oak.

“Yeah, this will be a good spot for a den,” I tell the boy.

“We can spill stuff,” the boys says, “and Mom won’t care.”

“The squirrels will do our housework,” I say.

“Yeah, the squirrels won’t care,” the boy says.

So we get up from our break and go back to work on our flower bed, which no longer is just a flower bed--it’s a future kitchen.

With renewed vigor, the boy swings the pick-ax. Like Sosa he swings, aiming for the record books.

“Keep your head steady,” I tell him as he swings the pick-ax.

“OK,” he says.

“And don’t take your eye off the ball.”

He swings again.

“How’s that?”

“Line-drive double,” I tell him.

“Wow,” he says, swinging the ax again.

“That’s a triple,” I tell him.

“Really?”

“In the corner, off the wall,” I say.

“Watch this,” he says, choking up on the ax, then bringing it down hard, developing his power from the toes on up, the way the great hitters do.

“The pitch, inside, and the count 3 and 2,” Vin Scully says.

We have prepared well for this summer. Last week, we bought 5 pounds of barbecue sauce. We wanted the 80-gallon drum, but 5 pounds was the biggest we could find--packaged like motor oil--80 ounces of tomato concentrate and garlic and molasses, sticky as glue, so sticky that it holds the meat together even as the fire tries to sear it apart.

With a 3-inch brush, we paint it on. Two coats minimum, preferably three. No primer, just this dark red paint right from the can, slopped on everything, even the food.

“Five pounds?” I asked my wife when she brought the barbecue sauce home from the store.

“It was the biggest they had,” she says.

Then we bought the pick-ax, a fine tool I’ve sometimes borrowed but never owned. In many ways the ultimate tool, good for starting a flower bed or taking out a stump. Beginnings and endings, that’s what this ax is for.

“Be sure to extend your arms,” I tell the boy as he lifts the ax again, inventing muscles with every swing.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Home run,” I say.

“Really?”

“Really,” I say.

“We’re averaging better than three home runs a game here at Dodger Stadium,” Scully sings on the radio.

“Nice piece of hitting,” I tell the boy.

“Thanks,” he says. “Time to take a break?”

“Sure,” I say.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.