There exists in this world a tiny microcosm of life where all collective human mannerisms and possible outcome of events converge. It is called Little League. If you stood in one place long enough you would be treated to a series of vignettes that could best be described as an Ingmar Bergman film starring Sylvester Stallone. You’d get drama, adventure, male bonding, gut-wrenching emotion and enough salted snacks to bloat the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders which is something I’d like to see.
It is a widely held belief that everything is reflected on a ballfield. If you’re a happy-go-lucky kid and you strike out or miss a grounder, your reaction will probably mirror your basic nature. Conversely, if you’re a success oriented CPA, dentist or computer systems analyst managing the team the happy-go-lucky kid is missing grounders on, your reaction might be somewhat predictable as well. Throw some borderline hysterical parents into the mix and you’ve got a show you could charge admission to.
Our son is eleven now and has been playing on Little League teams for five years. Generally, his competitive spirit has resulted in crowd pleasing displays as in the time he hurdled an empty baby stroller to catch a foul ball. But occasionally his passion goes beyond the bounds. This past season on his basketball team there was a memorable moment where he went for a loose ball against a guard twice his size. Son’s team was down and he knew they needed this possession but he also didn’t want to get pulverized. So he barked at the kid. Imagine a player coming at you full speed growling like a Doberman. His opponent backed off, totally spooked and possibly wondering if he’d had all his shots. Son took it to the basket with a pretty layup but afterward was admonished by the officials and his coach for making animal noises on the court. Another Kodak moment.
Last year my brother managed his son’s farm league baseball team of six and seven-year-olds up in Westchester. During one game his star slugger came into the batter’s box without a helmet. Brother went over to him with the piece of equipment he needed but the kid said no, he wasn’t wearing one today. He spent all morning spiking his hair and this would mess it up. My brother hunkered his 6’4″ frame down to ground level to stress the importance of a batting helmet without unduly intimidating his player but it was no go. Finally, he summoned the boy’s mother from the sidelines who looked at Brother horrified when she heard the story. “Are you kidding?” she asked, annoyed. “He can’t wear that thing. He spent all morning on his hair.”
I once bore witness to a farm league game where a six-year-old who hadn’t had a hit all season finally whacked one to the outfield. As he rounded third base his deliriously happy father went tearing onto the field and grabbed him in a bear hug before he reached home. The ump called the runner out but the kid’s parents didn’t care, they were so happy. That kind of thing can fly in the farm league but once you get up into the older divisions any parent who might try a stunt like that would be tackled to the ground and forced fed pretzel nuggets until the ambulance arrived.
But the essence of Little League, and the many faceted ways in which it demonstrates who we are and what we bring with us, was highlighted several seasons ago during the divisional playoff game. It was just before the last inning and the coaches were giving the teams their final talks. I was within earshot of the opposing team’s huddle and I heard their manager’s inspirational words:
“Okay, guys, the time has come. We’ve been waiting a long time for this and there’s been a lot of preparation. I want you all to take a deep breath and go out there and push for the win. You hear me guys? I want you to push hard! Now let’s go!”
“Wow,” I said to the woman next to me. “That was quite a rally speech. What does this guy do for a living?”
“He’s an obstetrician,” she deadpanned. And for me that said it all.
Copyright 1995 by author