Ghosts of Little League Past

Roan! The ball is to your RIGHT!

I went with my parents to watch my nephew’s baseball game yesterday, which is something in itself; I actually left the house. But more than that I reminded me (and my parents) of when I first started playing baseball as a child. Oh, some things have changed, such as the generator-powered pitching machine, guaranteed to “throw” strikes, and the absence of the communal helmet that every boy on the team had to share when at bat some 20-30 years ago. These kids all have their own helmets, and are they fancy; streamlined, vented, designer colors, etc. And not a wooden bat even visible among the dugouts. But fancy equipment changes and requirements aside, not much is very different. Parents drive their trucks up on the lawn and watch the game from the comfort of the cab, eating fast food and not having to defy the elements by standing in the wind, rain, or sun. Younger children watch with their fingers curled through the metallic fences, waiting for a foul ball to crack their little knuckles that poke through the criss crossed design. And of course watching the game is still barely voluntary by the fielding team… this is where my parents’ recollection of little Kevin comes in.

Me, 1983

You see, my nephew is out drawing intricate designs along the baseline in the dirt using his cleats. When he is in the outfield, his little hands are constantly in the grass, searching for what cannot be seen by the adults standing along the edges of the field. Ah, I recall the wonder of that field of grass well; after a few batters have failed to connect with the ball, my attention wandered off into the search for a four-leaf clover, witnessing the trek of several species of bugs, and the consideration of what animal shapes the clouds overhead were forming. My nephew has this multi-tasking form of baseball down pat; his instincts are there: He hears the ball hit the bat and runs to stand on the nearest base, glove at the ready… if only he was actually facing the direction of the ball being thrown to him.  Ah, what fun, these games where the kids run around, throw the ball wildly, and have the time of their lives! This is the kind of baseball that I could watch on a regular basis.

Daring the runner to step off

As we leave, my parents show no mercy comparing my childhood fielding tactics to those of the most humorous seen today; a player throwing his glove up in the air to himself, batters who refuse to swing (or swing after the ball is in the catcher’s mitt), players facing the wrong way, runners who forget to stay on the base when the in-fielder has the ball, the player who didn’t care that the runner on the next base wasn't going, he was going all the way home anyway, and, of course, the runner who flaps his arms while running to first after getting a hit that four players of the other team all went for, but none of whom actually picked up the ball. Yes, this is America’s sport, isn’t it?