Tournament time, and a whole new stress level. If you lose you're done and if you win, you play another day.
No -- it's not the World Series. It's not even the Little League World Series. It's just a team of nine- and ten-year-old boys, who've played together for a couple months, and want to play together a couple games more.
The sweet summer night stretches long, more than long enough for six innings of baseball. There are more spectators than usual, since any game could be the last for a season, more grampas and grammas and neighbors and kids from other teams and a coach or two scouting. Flash of a camera more often. The cheers are a little louder, the applause a little longer. The coaches coach a little harder, the kids chatter more in the dugout and on the field. There's an edge in air and everybody feels it.
Our team has practiced hard and improved all year and tonight it shows. We jump on their little pitcher early and often and take a 5-0 lead by the third. By the time the other coach pulls the pitcher, he's crying. I want to hug him.
In the next inning we score a couple more runs and have kids on first and second. There's a solid hit to center field but given the shaky nature of fielding at this age, our coaches send the runners on around. Julian gets thrown out at the plate, the tag just kissing his leg. Even with our lead, he feels terrible and hides his face on the way back to the dugout.
If I hadn't already raised a boy who learned most of his life lessons through baseball, I might question, why put your kid through this? Why care so much? Why the pressure on this young kids? Isn't this supposed to be fun?
I know the answers, now. It's hard to watch your kid, sometimes, play ball--they try, they fail; they get a hit, they make an out; they get hit by pitches and miss fly balls and win games and lose games. I don't think a heliocopter parent could survive baseball. But I wasn't any kind of aircraft parent, and let Tony enjoy and suffer all that baseball could bring him, from the time he was five to the time he graduated from college. And he's a better grownup for it--he knows how to win and lose, how to be a team player, how to lead, how to be a good sport. He know how to coach and how to take coaching.
Most of these little boys won't play baseball as long, but I know what they will remember, and it won't be the strikout or the dropped ball. It'll be the fun they had on the bench, the snacks after the game, and just maybe, a particularly tough loss or good win. Or maybe not.
We win the game, and go on to play another day. If the other team seems a little subdued as the teams shake hands after, it doesn't last long. We're chatting away after when I notice the kids on field--the game's over, but the field is still filled with kids. It's kids from both team--burgandy jerseys and yellow, and a bunch of little sisters and brothers, and now there're all running the bases, starting at home plate and running round and round, racing each other and laughing, big kids and little ones, arms in the air, dancing, filling the diamond with laughter, no telling the difference between the kids who won the game and those who didn't.
'Cause there's not.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
About how baseball could save the world
Thursday night at the baseball fields. Cool again with threatening skies and a brisk breeze. The field lights are on early and bring a cheery if faux brightness to the complex.
At least three games are going on when I get there, so the parking lot is full and you better drive slowly, because kids are popping out between cars everywhere. Grownups too. They're carrying bat-bags and lawn chairs and coolers and ball gloves and it's hard to tell who's arriving for the next game and who's leaving the last one.
I pass the concession stand and there's a crowd around it, and the little kids are buying ring pops and now-n-laters and the players are buying hot dogs and pizza and the parents are buying coffee and popcorn.
There's a girls' softball team practicing on a ball-field to my left and a dad is working with the pitcher who's maybe 13, and she takes the ball from him and whips it around so fast it looks like her arm has been wound and released by a rubber band. She smiles at the smack the ball makes in the catcher's glove and high-fives the coach/dad (hers, maybe?) and gets ready to throw it again.
I luck out, snagging a parking space right by the field I'm headed for, which means I won't have to lug my own lawn chair, cooler, blanket, purse and umbrella all the way from the outfield parking lot to the bleacher area.
In front of me, on the other side of the visitors' dugout are the batting cages, and it's a kaleidescope of color -- the green team is there, and the yellow team, and the burgundy team (ours). And some kids are taking pitches from coach/dads in the cages, and others are waiting, and others are throwing balls back and forth, and still others are just hanging.
The game on the field is finishing up, so there's a full contingent of parents and grandparents and siblings of all sizes, from babies to teenagers, watching. Well, the grownups are watching, and most of the teenagers, but all the little kids are in their own world: climbing on the flagpole stone, running around the utility shed, throwing stones ("Megan! Don't throw stones!"), and eating snacks from coolers and concession stand.
I climb out of the car and unload, and cast a weather eye to the west, determining that while I don't need my umbrella immediately, I might in an hour. And I haul my stuff near the action, waiting for the last out of the game so I can plant my chair in a good spot.
Around me the conversation swirls like words caught in the wind at Wrigley Field. From the dugout come the coaches' staccato instructions ("Matthew! Back up! This is their big hitter!" "Tom! Don't swing at that pitch!") and the more lugubrious comments of those (10-year-olds) on the bench ("Euuuch! Mitchell just farted!" "This guy struck out the last time." "Did you guys have recess today?")
From the stands, the parents shout encouragement ("You'll get 'em next time, Chris!" "Yea! That's the way!"), while maintaining non-stop chit-chat among themselves ("And then we decided to go to the mall, because I was not going to shop outside in the rain." "Yea, the lawnmower quit running, so I took it to that place you told me about last week.") And the teens have their cell phones to talk to, or text on, and make the occasional comment: "Mom, are we stopping at Quiznos after? Can we just get takeout?"
Around the world, it's been a tough week. I've seen too many news stories, and had too many conversations about Myanmar, aka Burma, and the China earthquake, and how high can gasoline go in one week? And there's not much I can do about these problems except write a check to Doctors Without Borders, or ponder carpooling to work next week.
But standing there listening to and watching this little-world-within-a-world, I think back to 2001, and how in the days after 9/11, it was baseball that made life seem a little more normal and sane.
And maybe that's what this little league is doing here, tonight, under these gray skies and bright lights. Dads coaching sons and daughters, moms bringing the snacks and the support, kids learning a game that in turn teaches them lessons they will need as grownups, about teamwork and winning and losing. Other kids just playing and having fun.
The game ends, and watching the boys shake hands after, it's hard to tell the team who had the most runs from the team who had the least. As soon as the two lines snake past each other, boys high-fiving each other, coaches shaking hands, the lines break, the boys run away, and every one gives a "whoop!" and heads to the dugout to grab their stuff and look for their moms and beg for food. Because they are all starving and need food now.
Two new teams take the field and throw their stuff in the dugouts, and the scoreboard is set back to zero-zero, first inning. The field is groomed a little as the young umps take a break. The teams warm up. The coaches start their encouraging chatter. New spectators take over the bleachers.
I set up camp for the evening. When I go home, I'll have to face what the world throws at us once again, earthquake or cyclone, tornado or war. But for a moment, I'll listen to the boys' silly talk and the crack of the ball, keep an eye open for rain, and have some popcorn. Such small things.
How about you? What's your stadium of sanity?
At least three games are going on when I get there, so the parking lot is full and you better drive slowly, because kids are popping out between cars everywhere. Grownups too. They're carrying bat-bags and lawn chairs and coolers and ball gloves and it's hard to tell who's arriving for the next game and who's leaving the last one.
I pass the concession stand and there's a crowd around it, and the little kids are buying ring pops and now-n-laters and the players are buying hot dogs and pizza and the parents are buying coffee and popcorn.
There's a girls' softball team practicing on a ball-field to my left and a dad is working with the pitcher who's maybe 13, and she takes the ball from him and whips it around so fast it looks like her arm has been wound and released by a rubber band. She smiles at the smack the ball makes in the catcher's glove and high-fives the coach/dad (hers, maybe?) and gets ready to throw it again.
I luck out, snagging a parking space right by the field I'm headed for, which means I won't have to lug my own lawn chair, cooler, blanket, purse and umbrella all the way from the outfield parking lot to the bleacher area.
In front of me, on the other side of the visitors' dugout are the batting cages, and it's a kaleidescope of color -- the green team is there, and the yellow team, and the burgundy team (ours). And some kids are taking pitches from coach/dads in the cages, and others are waiting, and others are throwing balls back and forth, and still others are just hanging.
The game on the field is finishing up, so there's a full contingent of parents and grandparents and siblings of all sizes, from babies to teenagers, watching. Well, the grownups are watching, and most of the teenagers, but all the little kids are in their own world: climbing on the flagpole stone, running around the utility shed, throwing stones ("Megan! Don't throw stones!"), and eating snacks from coolers and concession stand.
I climb out of the car and unload, and cast a weather eye to the west, determining that while I don't need my umbrella immediately, I might in an hour. And I haul my stuff near the action, waiting for the last out of the game so I can plant my chair in a good spot.
Around me the conversation swirls like words caught in the wind at Wrigley Field. From the dugout come the coaches' staccato instructions ("Matthew! Back up! This is their big hitter!" "Tom! Don't swing at that pitch!") and the more lugubrious comments of those (10-year-olds) on the bench ("Euuuch! Mitchell just farted!" "This guy struck out the last time." "Did you guys have recess today?")
From the stands, the parents shout encouragement ("You'll get 'em next time, Chris!" "Yea! That's the way!"), while maintaining non-stop chit-chat among themselves ("And then we decided to go to the mall, because I was not going to shop outside in the rain." "Yea, the lawnmower quit running, so I took it to that place you told me about last week.") And the teens have their cell phones to talk to, or text on, and make the occasional comment: "Mom, are we stopping at Quiznos after? Can we just get takeout?"
Around the world, it's been a tough week. I've seen too many news stories, and had too many conversations about Myanmar, aka Burma, and the China earthquake, and how high can gasoline go in one week? And there's not much I can do about these problems except write a check to Doctors Without Borders, or ponder carpooling to work next week.
But standing there listening to and watching this little-world-within-a-world, I think back to 2001, and how in the days after 9/11, it was baseball that made life seem a little more normal and sane.
And maybe that's what this little league is doing here, tonight, under these gray skies and bright lights. Dads coaching sons and daughters, moms bringing the snacks and the support, kids learning a game that in turn teaches them lessons they will need as grownups, about teamwork and winning and losing. Other kids just playing and having fun.
The game ends, and watching the boys shake hands after, it's hard to tell the team who had the most runs from the team who had the least. As soon as the two lines snake past each other, boys high-fiving each other, coaches shaking hands, the lines break, the boys run away, and every one gives a "whoop!" and heads to the dugout to grab their stuff and look for their moms and beg for food. Because they are all starving and need food now.
Two new teams take the field and throw their stuff in the dugouts, and the scoreboard is set back to zero-zero, first inning. The field is groomed a little as the young umps take a break. The teams warm up. The coaches start their encouraging chatter. New spectators take over the bleachers.
I set up camp for the evening. When I go home, I'll have to face what the world throws at us once again, earthquake or cyclone, tornado or war. But for a moment, I'll listen to the boys' silly talk and the crack of the ball, keep an eye open for rain, and have some popcorn. Such small things.
How about you? What's your stadium of sanity?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
About the new Sunday Survey!
Here's your chance to weigh in! We were talking this morning about how the Red Sox have ended up being the team on the hot streak--NOT the Rockies, whose hotness seems to have faded with their eight-day layoff. I said I thought the Sox dominance over the Rockies should make the Indians feel better; others weighed in that it would make them feel worse, since the Tribe was within a game of ending their series.
Well, what do you think? Who's feelin' less love? Tribe or Rox?
Well, what do you think? Who's feelin' less love? Tribe or Rox?
Monday, October 22, 2007
About next year, and next, and next
The Indians losing last night is not the most monumental baseball collapse ever. (Ask any Cub fan about that.) Or ask the 2004 Yankees--the Red Sox last victims.
The sun came up in Cleveland today, and I've not yet visited cleveland.com yet, but I'm sure there's a lot of second-guessing about pulling pitchers sooner, and sending/not sending Kenny Lofton home, and how some peoples' bats went dead the last three games. Fodder for conversation. Until ... next year.
And then the sun comes up again and again and again and before you know it, it's next year and everyone's hopeful again and there you go.
But first I have to get through today, because baby I'm tired. I made the commitment to watch the games, and I did, and I'm paying for it. With bags around my eyes. I'm just wanting to get through today without a nap -- much less, next year.
I'm glad I didn't spring for the $25 Tribe Time t-shirt I found on eBay. Because, unfortunately, Tribe Time is over until ... next year.
I'll root for the Rockies, because I love their story, and I now officially hate the Red Sox as much as I hate the White Sox (I loved the White Sox season ... last year!).
So, how about you? Who will you be rootin' for...this year?
The sun came up in Cleveland today, and I've not yet visited cleveland.com yet, but I'm sure there's a lot of second-guessing about pulling pitchers sooner, and sending/not sending Kenny Lofton home, and how some peoples' bats went dead the last three games. Fodder for conversation. Until ... next year.
And then the sun comes up again and again and again and before you know it, it's next year and everyone's hopeful again and there you go.
But first I have to get through today, because baby I'm tired. I made the commitment to watch the games, and I did, and I'm paying for it. With bags around my eyes. I'm just wanting to get through today without a nap -- much less, next year.
I'm glad I didn't spring for the $25 Tribe Time t-shirt I found on eBay. Because, unfortunately, Tribe Time is over until ... next year.
I'll root for the Rockies, because I love their story, and I now officially hate the Red Sox as much as I hate the White Sox (I loved the White Sox season ... last year!).
So, how about you? Who will you be rootin' for...this year?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
About go, Tribe
I don't even know if I can characterize the kind of baseball fan I am.
Casual? Check. Fair weather? Oh yea. (Which is why I'm not a CUBS fan, like the rest of my family.) Only mildly informed? Right. Rabid when the need arises? Amen.
In other words, GO INDIANS.
I grew up in northern Ohio, and the drone of a baseball game on the radio was as much a part of summer as the crickets and the rumble of thunder in the distance. In the '60s, baseball was still America's game, and its presence more ubiquitous than now.
So after I moved here, to northern Indiana, my interest waned a bit, plus the Indians sucked. But when Jacobs Field opened in the '90s, and the team improved, I came back. Don't even mention Tampa Bay to me.
And my heart's been broken over the past decade more than once. Yet here we are again, in control of a pennant race, just three Cleveland wins/Twinkie losses away from going to the post-season one more time.
So the first thing I do every morning is check my Google homepage, which has a scores/standings module on it. And if I'm online at night, I've got mlb.com Gameday on, following the game. And if the Tribe is playing the White Sox, I get to see them. Or if they are the game of the week. Or if I'm visiting Ohio.
We could clinch this weekend. I may need a doctor visit for some Xanax for October. Cleveland Rocks.
Hey, what about you? Who's takin' you out to the ballgame?
Casual? Check. Fair weather? Oh yea. (Which is why I'm not a CUBS fan, like the rest of my family.) Only mildly informed? Right. Rabid when the need arises? Amen.
In other words, GO INDIANS.
I grew up in northern Ohio, and the drone of a baseball game on the radio was as much a part of summer as the crickets and the rumble of thunder in the distance. In the '60s, baseball was still America's game, and its presence more ubiquitous than now.
So after I moved here, to northern Indiana, my interest waned a bit, plus the Indians sucked. But when Jacobs Field opened in the '90s, and the team improved, I came back. Don't even mention Tampa Bay to me.
And my heart's been broken over the past decade more than once. Yet here we are again, in control of a pennant race, just three Cleveland wins/Twinkie losses away from going to the post-season one more time.
So the first thing I do every morning is check my Google homepage, which has a scores/standings module on it. And if I'm online at night, I've got mlb.com Gameday on, following the game. And if the Tribe is playing the White Sox, I get to see them. Or if they are the game of the week. Or if I'm visiting Ohio.
We could clinch this weekend. I may need a doctor visit for some Xanax for October. Cleveland Rocks.
Hey, what about you? Who's takin' you out to the ballgame?
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