Never really watched a lot of baseball. Played it.

I played with just one sister and two rocks for bases, an endless, dusty game in a thorny lot behind the church where Dad preached. At least it had fences to stop our ball.

I played workups with whichever church members showed up at the grade-school field on a Saturday morning. Workups? Without enough for two teams, everyone just rotates through the defensive positions and works his or her way up to bat. Where sometimes the good church folk might let a skinny kid beat out his weak dribbler and land on first.

I played on a real Little League team, riding to practices and games on my banana-seat bike, glove looped over a handlebar. I was an outfielder who went to bat with endless optimism that maybe this time I’d beat out my weak dribbler. A free hot dog and Coke after every game revived my optimism.

I played with a half-dozen college nerds with a tennis ball in a weird yet strategic game called fur ball, where any hit over the back-yard fence ended the inning. 

I toured the Baseball Hall of Fame with my wife in that tiny village in upstate New York, pointing and touching and oohing and aahing while her grandparents waited in the car. They lived just a few miles down the road, and had seen it all already.

I played with my sons so often that we finally just mowed base paths into the back-yard bermuda. The early teams were Son One and Son Two against me and Son Three with a plastic bat and a tennis ball, and my job was to keep the score close without actually winning.

Eventually. I accrued the most seniority among all T-ball managers in my city, crouching year after year to demonstrate the proper steps for fielding a grounder. My skinny kids got pretty good at stopping weak dribblers.

I vigorously argued about whether some skinny kid beat out a throw. I soaked towels in an ice chest to wrap around little necks and keep little players from keeling over during July games. I yelled and clapped a lot.

I have baseballs signed by whole teams of skinny kids, plus a bobblehead engraved to “Coach Doug.”

It’s not an exaggeration to say that baseball, as James Earl Jones intones toward the end of Field of Dreams, has always been there, a near constant through the years.

However, I can’t get excited about sitting and watching a game for a couple of hours, whether it’s muscled pros or the latest bunch of skinny kids.

Watching is not what I love about the game. A free hot dog (or even one I could buy at a reasonable price) might sweeten the deal, but still.

Baseball is more interesting and engaging as an activity than a spectacle.

Now, don’t kick dirt at me: If you love sitting in the bleachers or your recliner, slowly absorbing the season, pitch by pitch, more power to you. I’m no hater.

Same goes for church services.

I don’t keep stats on them, but I’ve sat through thousands, on velvet pews and hardwood. I don’t hate them, but I do believe that Christianity, like baseball, is better as an active lifestyle than as a spectator sport.

So don’t just sit there, kid. Play the game. Let’s see some hustle.

Email Dr. Doug Mendenhall, who throws left, bats right and teaches journalism at Abilene Christian University, at doug.mendenhall@acu.edu.