I took my son to his first baseball practice this evening. It was held in a school gym, because it's still winter around here. I haven't been in a school gym in a long time, and it brought back memories, not all of them pleasant. All the old elements were there: the squeaky floor; the harsh, buzzing lights; the faint smell of floor polish, rubber and sweat. And then the charged air of performance anxiety. He did OK, though, as they went through the drills--running, throwing, catching--and I sat on a hard bench, trying to look bemused, fatherly, nonchalant. . . .