I say "sort of" because I’m not sure baseball is a real job or that he will ever make a living doing it or that Idaho Falls is within the boundaries of American life as we know it or that riding a broken-down bus for twenty hours a weekend between Great Falls and Provo is really that great of an adventure. Minor League baseball is "sort of" a life.

I don’t know much about life in the Pioneer League in general or much about the team in Idaho Falls in particular. I understand it is 90 feet between the bases and the umpires stink. Some things are the same wherever you go.

On the way to the airport, I asked my vagabond son if his new team had a mascot.

"Sort of," he mumbled.

"What are they?" I pressed him, "The Savages, The Wild Beasts, The Raging Rhino’s, The Killer Bee’s, The Nasty Ninja’s, The Royal Beanballs?"

"The Chukars," he said as he turned away.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, "the what?"

"Chukars," he said louder.

"What’s a chukar?"

"I don’t know, Dad; I think it is some sort of a game bird."

"Like a quail or a dove?"

"Sort of," he mumbled.

"I’m sending my son off to a foreign land to play for the Chukars?"

"Sorry, Dad."

"Son, what are my friends going to say when I tell them my sort of son plays baseball with game birds?"

"Tell them if I don’t throw strikes, I’ll be out of the pen, home soon, and sort of back on your payroll."

"Go Chukars!" I hollered at the frightened motorists rolling down Hwy. 360.

Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

"Why are they called the Chukars?" I said, breaking the silence. "Were all the good names like "Chiggers" and "Field Mice" taken?"

"It’s not that funny, Dad."

"It’s sort of funny….."

"I’m the Chukar, Dad, not you."

"But I’m the Chukar's dad," I retorted, "guilty by association."

"Let it go," he advised me.

I couldn’t. I’m sort of bad that way.

"So what do the fans yell to their team for encouragement?" I asked. "Peck them, Chukars, peck them!"

I got no response.

"Chukars are suckers," I gigged him.

"Chukars are cluckers!"

He wouldn’t bite. But then, I remembered Chukars are sort of chicken.

"Who’s your catcher?" I asked, "Bird-brain Johnson?"

I had a million questions for my fine-feathered friend.

"Are Chukar MVP’s called "Beak of the Week?"

"Do Chukars like Smucker’s on their muckruckers?"

"How much wood could a Wood Chukar chuck if a Wood Chukar could chuck wood?"

I sort of sensed a touch of agitation on his part.

"Do you ever play the Road Runners or the Pleasant Peasant Pheasants?"

"I hope you don’t come to visit," he finally spoke. "I’m sort of afraid you might embarrass me."

"Of course, I’ll embarrass you son; it’s my job. God has empowered me to keep you humble. I’m sort of your conscience away from home."

"I’ll send you a Fighting Chukar hat next week," he hollered from the escalator at the Delta gate.

"I’m proud to be a Chukar's papa," I hollered back, "and thank the Lord you’ re not a Yankee!"

The minor leagues are professional baseball – sort of. The rules are the same – sort of. The fields are the same – sort of (they both have grass and bugs). The umpires still call balls and strikes – sort of. You still have to get people out – sort of. It’s still a game and they’re still kids – sort of.

This time when Zane left it was sort of different. This time he left as a man. I sort of wonder what he’ll be like this fall when the Chukars return to their nests.

The hardest part about raising kids is watching them leave the nest. They go from little chicks to game birds overnight. One moment they can’t get off the ground and the next they have sported wings and are soaring without permission.

"Get back here you little Chukar!"

I’m glad our boys have sprouted wings and learned to fly – sort of. Yeah, there is a part of me that knows every boy must one day fly solo, but there is also an important part of me that wants them safe at home. I’m sort of confused today which feeling I’m supposed to embrace. I’m sort of leaning toward the "nest is best" option. I’m out of sorts.

This will be the first time in his life he has pitched without Papa Chukar in the seats. I’ve been there – in season and out, through strikes and balls, bad calls and right calls, wins, losses and draws. I hope he makes it without me – sort of.

It ain’t easy being a seasoned Chukar. We know about predators and harsh winters. We know what it is like to be shot at – and hit! We know the fear of big bird dogs with their noses to the ground. We’ve learned to live outside the nest, and we’re not sure we like it. Too dangerous.

Sometimes I think I know how Jesus must have felt when He left heaven for earth. He had to have been sort of anxious. Dangerous place, this fallen world, you know.

Seeing my own son leave my safety net helps me understand how God The Father must have felt when Jesus arrived in Bethlehem – at least sort of.

For information on Idaho Falls Chukars baseball team, click here.

-Ron Carlson

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