Baker
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A switch snaps into place, a flicker, and the buzzing begins. Wind whistles through the trees, cooling the dark night. A whirling commences, signaling the beginning of something important. Driven by crazed radicals, these happenings are all a part of a momentous event. Oh no, this is not a secret government operation carried out under the cloak of night against enemy insurgents. That’s not even worth writing about. This is a cool late-spring night just outside the city. This is the opening day (or night, as the case may be) of little league baseball.
Dozens of parents pack the stands, illuminated by the lights, the incessant buzzers. These parents – clearly experts in all things baseball – have come prepared for the night. Many lean back in their “Seaties”* and chatter about the new silver bat that what’s-his-name’s kid hit his first homerun with. Upon more detailed observation, the absence of individuals of the male sex becomes evident. One does not have to look far to find these gentlemen, however, for they have not strayed far from the womenfolk.
A quick glance reveals their location; they have situated themselves down the right field line, stretching from the end of the home dugout to the foul pole in the corner of the outfield. Critically observing the happenings on the field, this gallery is a collection of men of all ages, some of whom have sons that play in the league, and others who have sons who played years ago and just can’t seem to get enough of the action. For these men, winning the game is often more important than it is for their boys, so much so that one might think it was they playing the game instead of watching it. They react to bad plays with groans and expression of disgust – as if it were their fault – and smugly glow when one of their team does something great. Others watch more objectively, taking notes on the performance of the teams and compiling scouting reports for their upcoming games.
Continuing down the fence, multicolored banners dominate the outfield wall, each naming one of the eighteen teams in the league. Proudly displayed beneath the team names are the sponsor of the team, these ranging from a simple “The Charlen and Williams Families” to a detailed graphic advertising “Landry’s Restaurants, Inc.”. Sponsoring a team is a true badge of honor – to be supporting this critical spring ritual is to be a true member of the community.
A commotion begins on this nearest baseball diamond. “Who Let the Dogs Out?” blasts over the speaker system, and the teams take the field amidst cheering from the faithful mothers. The home team, the Dawgs, toss the ball around the park to warm their arms up as the first batters of the opposing Owls step out of the dugout, twirl their bats over their heads and take practice swings.
A humming starts up as the umpire, garbed in an untraditional red**, turns on the pitching machine. This piece of equipment – little more than a spinning rubber wheel held up by a metal tripod – stands on the pitcher’s mound in place of a human pitcher. A defender, protected by a helmet and facemask, stands alongside him, ready to knock down anything hit his way.
Once the machine is up to full speed and emits a satisfying beep, the umpire removes the game balls from their protective plastic and rubs them down in his hands. He holds the first ball up in the air to present it to the waiting catcher behind home plate, and then places it in the pitching machine. A “whap!” and the ball shoots out of the machine and arrives with a thud in the fence. A nearby father retrieves the ball, and the angle of the pitching machine is adjusted. The ump tries again, and this time the machine is still just a bit high and glances off the catcher’s glove before clattering to a halt on the backstop. The process is repeated, and the ball lands in the catcher’s glove with a thud. “Play ball!” comes the long-awaited call from the umpire, and side conversations in the stands and along the fence come to a halt as the first batter steps in, and the first episode in the long and wonderfully stressful journey that is little league baseball begins.
This game, six innings in total, goes like virtually all games – unbelievable plays interspersed with totally believable ones (it is, after all, little league baseball). A homerun ball caught by a leaping outfielder who has never caught a ball in a game – another homerun ball bouncing off the head of that very same outfielder and landing over the fence – a pudgy first baseman abandoning his post mid-inning to ask his mom for a sandwich and allowing the runner to steal second – a runner sprinting to third base instead of first after putting the ball in play – fielders running into each other when heading for the same ball – your typical baseball game.
All that changes in the last inning, however, when something inexplicable happens. A triple play, you think? Maybe an inside-the-park homerun? A diving catch? No. The answer is much simpler, and even more unexpected. Up 8-2 in this last stretch, the Owls manage to do the impossible: turn three straight outs.
An infielder catches a pop fly; a ball rolled back to the pitcher is run over to first base; the shortstop fields a grounder and delivers a hard throw to first base; suddenly, the game is over. The stadium is quiet as no one fully realizes what just happened. What just happened? It’s over? No last minute comebacks? The fans are so used to the ups and downs of a game that even the most optimistic Owls’ fanatics fully expected the team to blow the game at the last minute, and it’s several seconds until the thunderous clapping and cheering welcome the end of the game. The players walk off the field – some tired, some happy, still others relieved that the contest is finally over – and head back into the dugouts.
The celebrating subsides after several minutes and the two teams reemerge to line up at first and third bases. They march toward each other, hands out to offer high-fives, handshakes, and even fist-pounds. The lines are followed by the opposing coaches, who shake hands and congratulate each other on the game.
After the niceties, both teams retire to opposite outfields for post-game meetings. Coaches struggle to keep the attentions of their players, who continue to allow their gazes to drift. They focus on their parents, the other team, the dads still convening along the fence line; anything to block out the coaches’ lecture. Finally, the words of encouragement and hope come to a close, and the teams gather in a huddle. They yell out their team name, and this, the first game of the little league season, is officially over.
Over for the kids, perhaps, but not for the parents.
The losing coaches wander off the field, deep in thought. They acknowledge friends and family that greet them on their way by, but the hollow look of defeat is clearly stamped on their face (“I’ve seen that look before,” says one of the fathers along the fence). Meanwhile, the winning coaches smile and laugh as they stroll away, fanaticizing about their next win, the playoffs, and their kids’ future Major League Baseball career. The actual players race to the concession stands for their free snow cones, glee on their faces and no recollection of their victory or their defeat. After all, it’s just a game…for kids.
* For those foolish enough to actually sit on those hard, uncomfortable bleachers, these are those thingies that you attach to the bleacher and give you a back to lean on; you know, the ones you’ve always looked down upon but have been jealous of.
** It’s so the parents, when upset with a call, can’t yell at the “blue,” a traditional name for a baseball umpire.
< Message edited by Bballman23 -- 10/29/2008 17:19:20 >
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