Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Growing up, I was never really involved in team sports (unless you call dance a sport which is not a debate I’m trying to start here today) but I do love to watch them. Show me a field, court, rink, or cage and I’ll show you one happy girl. While football will probably always be my favorite, there’s just something special about a good, old fashioned baseball game. Maybe it’s the picturesque contrast of blue skies and green grass or the smell of red dirt and hot dogs; maybe it’s the sound a bat makes when it solidly connects with a line drive or the feel of camaraderie when a bunch of strangers temporarily unite as friends cheering on their team. I’m not sure what it is but I know that no other feeling matches the one I get when I hear the first bars of Put Me In Coach over the loudspeakers.

Last night, I went to watch a little league coach-pitch softball game. The seven and eight year old girls we cheered for were decked out in light blue uniforms with hot pink accents (including hot pink knee socks) and ribbons in their ponytails. They were the adorable little Fancy Nancies of the softball world.

What caught my attention was not really the ballgame itself but the tiny little outfielder from the other team. She stood about knee high to a grasshopper and was proudly hauling around a glove about three sizes too big. She would make the trek from the dugout to her spot in the outfield, the spot the coach told her to stand in. Her spot. The spot she would not deviate from. For anything. Her focus on the pitcher and the batter was like that of a laser beam until… a bug flew by.

She followed the bug; she picked a few outfield flowers. She threw some dirt into the air to see which way the winds were blowing. She waved to her mom who was trying to get her to pay attention to the game. She was perhaps the most precious thing I’ve ever seen in cleats. When a ball finally came out her way, she stopped it and launched it back toward the infield, a lofty throw that went maybe half the distance she intended. But, the effort prompted a little outfield happy dance. In her mind, she was better than Cal Ripken Jr., Brady Anderson, and Tom Glavine all rolled into one.

I have no idea what the final score was, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter. The girls are learning teamwork and sportsmanship and the fundamentals of the game. More importantly, they’re having fun. They’re enjoying the summer moments of childhood when their worries consist of “Where are my pink knee socks?” and “What flavor juice box did the snack mom bring?” They’ll have plenty of time to worry about the rest of life later.

I hope you’ll spend a few moments of your summer acting like a kid again. I hope you’ll go outside, breathe in some fresh air, dig in some red dirt, and roll around in the green grass under a blue sky. I hope you’ll take in a ball game and remember the carefree days of your childhood. I hope you’ll worry a little less, chase bugs a little more, and end all of your efforts with a little happy dance. Until we meet again, friends, I’m off to buy some peanuts and Cracker Jacks…