Baseball

I went to a baseball game last week. It's that time of year. We're almost fully employed going to softball and baseball games. Other than eating way too many hot dogs and too much popcorn, it's big fun. 

This particular game was between two teams of 9- and 10-year-olds. It unfolded the way games like that usually do, until late in the game when a kid hit a home run. 

I've seen a lot of summer home runs where the ball dribbles between hapless fielders and three or four throws go astray. This was not one of those. This was legit. The batter nailed a pitch which sailed far over the heads of every kid on the field. He chugged around the bases, cruised into home, and the crowd went wild. 

Then the opposing coaches called the umpire over. There was a discussion, the umpire shrugged and called the young hero out, and the inning was over. 

As it turned out, there's a rule that you need to slide into home plate. My understanding is that it's to keep collisions and injuries to a minimum. So, technically, it was the right call. 

But was it? 

I'm all for following the rules, and most rules are there for a reason, but these were little kids. There was no collision of any kind. I saw the look on the face of the hitter. He was jubilant, as excited as he could possibly be. Then, in a heartbeat, he went from hero to someone who'd made a grievous mistake that killed a rally and took his team out of the inning. Crushed would be an accurate description of his expression. 

Coaches have so much power in our world, for good and ill. Not least because they often forget what matters. I've often thought that before a season there should be a sit down with all the coaches, where the athletic director set out priorities for every coach. If your players are 17 or 18, by all means, go for that conference championship as long as it doesn't involve cheating or abuse. But for little kids, summer games should involve giving everyone a chance to play, having fun, learning the sport, and not worrying very much, if at all, what the final score is. 

I had a flashback to my own baseball career. I played all the sports in high school. I was an okay football player, mediocre at basketball, and pretty bad at baseball. I was a grown man before I figured out part of the reason. While I was riding my bicycle seven miles to town once or twice a week for a couple hours of practice, the kids who lived in town were playing baseball eight hours a day, every day. I had no idea...I wish someone had told me. I started out as not very good and fell farther behind every day. But I was a lonely little kid and really enjoyed feeling part of a team, so I kept peddling my bike to practice whenever the wind wasn't too strong. 

During one game, I was out in right field, where I rightfully belonged. I had a brand new first baseman's mitt, which was as rigid as a board. I hadn't had it long enough to get it massaged and oiled into a righteous receptacle for line drives. A ball was hit in my direction, and I actually caught it, but then it dribbled out of the glove onto the ground. I was consumed by shame and felt the need to apologize. I pounded my mitt and said, “My fault.” I heard my coach's irritated voice yell back, “Well, who else's fault would it be?” and   saw my teammates laughing at me. 

And that was the end of my baseball career. A little thing, a brief moment, but it can be a shocking experience, seeing yourself as others see you. Painful when it happens as an adult, but as an adult you can shelter your ego by thinking of things you are good at. That ability doesn't exist in a child. 

Thinking of those coaches who took away a homerun from a child, they did in fact win the game. 

But what was lost? 

Copyright 2024 Brent Olson