Baseball on the Brain

The last time my son played little league was three years ago.  I was the manager of his team that season.  I remember we started out in January with the draft.  The season started the second week of February.  I think it was thirty one games later the season ended in the middle of June.  I was tired of baseball when it was over and it was good to take a break.  The next year my son didn’t want to move onto Pony baseball and that was okay.  I knew my son was not passionate about the game and I didn’t want him to feel like he had to play because I loved it.  Not being part of baseball for the past two years has been fine, I really haven’t thought about it, until now.

It started slowly, when my good friend Damon started managing a team for his son.  I started hearing the stories about the draft and the kids he chose and all the practices he’s been conducting.  My friend Brenda on Facebook keeps commenting about all her son’s games she’s going to and the hot dog she’s going to eat.  Then, there are all the little guys in the neighborhood that are starting to play and their dads are coaching.  Before you know it, I feel like everyone’s down at the ball field but me.  I’m just going to put it out of my mind and go to the gym.  Now, I’m sitting on the bike watching Jody Gerut hit the first homer in the Mets new ballpark.  My cell phone rings and its another buddy inviting me to play on his softball team.  What is going on?  It’s like what my wife used to say, “When you want to get pregnant, all you see are babies everywhere.”  To coach or play or participate isn’t in the cards right now, so I’ll just have to blog about it.

Back in the day, I used to play for North Shores Little League down in Pacific Beach.  As far as I know, it doesn’t exist anymore, but it did send a team to the little league world series in the 1950’s.  As you can see, we were a motley crew.  The hats were cheesy and we couldn’t afford pants.  We played on a dirt field.  These are horrendous conditions when you compare them to today.  My son played at Rancho Buena Vista Little League where the field is probably nicer than Petco Park, the uniforms look professional, and the snack bar serves more and better food than the local McDonald’s.

There is one constant that makes it so worthwhile.  The players are still just boys.  They may look better and they may know more baseball at twelve than I knew at sixteen, but they are still kids.  The beauty of little league is to watch the t-baller tadpoles grow into the frogs that are throwing heat and banging out hits and turning double plays.  The boys learn all the fundamentals of hitting and fielding and pitching, but this isn’t what they take away from the game.  They learn how to shake off the charlie horse after a bad hop and continue on.  They learn how to stand in the batter’s box against the fastest pitcher in the league even though they are nervous.  They learn how to face there friends when they make an error and allow two runs to score.  If they’re a good ballplayer, they learn how to hone their skill and gain confidence.  They learn how hustle and hard work can pay off.  These are all the things they learn while playing this silly game with a bat, a ball and a glove.