Requiem for our Team

The baseball season ended at 11:30 Saturday morning. Not for you, I know, and certainly not for the professional athletes still a few games away from halfway through their millionaire romp towards September or, if they’re lucky, all the way to October and a bigger paycheck.

But it ended for the Hershey Little League Colts 9 team sponsored by Hershey Realty or, as we liked to call ourselves, the Blue Jays. And my royal blue coach’s jersey hangs soaked in sweat and rain over the chair in the next room.

Waking up in the morning, we werent entirely free of concern about whether we’d pull off the game at all. We knew going in that at least two of our best players would be out of town. Friday night’s weather report threatened rain, even thunderstorms. Recent real storms had forced us to reschedule this final game at least twice and to move the field just as many times, to make way at the main league field for older age group playoffs.

When I arrived at the field, our little boys in blue were playing catch on the infield dirt. As I did before every game, arriving between 20-30 minutes before the first pitch, I made a quick count of our players. Normally, each team fields 10 kids – one for every normal infield position and four outfielders. There were twelve kids on our roster, but not since the second game did we have a full crew all at once, so, for most games, each kid was able to play the whole game without substitution. When I got to the field on Saturday, I counted 8. By the time we called “play ball!”, two more – the brother and sister pair – had made it to the field.

Unfortunately, our opponents for the day, dressed in yellow, were six kids short of a team. A few players and even some coaches for the other side thought that we werent playing until 3 in the afternoon, so we delayed the start of the game for almost a half hour to give everyone time to arrive. We juggled the lineups and field positions just so we could get the game in, and for the first two innings, we lent our opponents in the yellow jerseys two outfielders. And we inserted coaches as catchers for most of the game and pitchers for the entire game in order to occupy more positions in the field.

These are but minor details. We started late, but there was no game behind us, so we were in no rush, and nobody in the park, players, coaches or parents alike, had any desire to forfeit the last game of the season for any reason. The game would go on. It had to.

With our two best hitters – who were also the most reliable gloves – absent, the pressure was on me to offer up some slow sweet pitches, giving the kids the best chance at putting the bat on the ball. Still, it took us about three innings to find our hitting groove, and before we knew it, we were losing 12-0. There is no worse feeling for a pee-wee baseball coach than striking out three batters in a row. Each inning, I moved a little closer to the plate, trying to reduce the vertical curve of the ball without throwing it too hard. But as I got closer, they got better, and four times I had to duck all the way to the dirt to avoid getting hit in the face with a mean line drive.

We had our standard problems and beautiful small victories, despite the early score. We even had a double play, and every one of our kids was able to get on base at least once. Thats a big deal – these are 7- and 8-year-olds. Next year, a full third will probably have turned in their gloves for video games or music lessons. At 7 and 8, just about every boy and girl tries soccer and baseball, but attrition comes quick. We had our share of clover-pickers and daydreamers, but by the end of the season, every kid, from the best to the least best, had improved greatly in their own way. My son was one of the most improved from start to finish – this being his first season playing the sport. In April and May, my playing catch with him meant that I had to throw my back out, reliably, having to bend down on every throw just to pick the ball back up off the grass. But when we played catch a few nights ago, he was throwing it right to me and he was catching most of my throws as well. And his batting went from shy and nervous to confident and quick, and when he first rounded third and headed for home about midway through the season, with me fortuitously manning the 3rd base coach spot and waving him home, earning a probably over-done hug from his old man, he didnt stop there – he’s been getting better every game.

He wasnt the only one. We had a few nice pop fly catches, a great throw from shortstop to first, and they even got the hang of backing each other up.

<img style=”max-width: 800px;” src=”http://www.remnants.nine9pages.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/out-of-the-dugout.jpg” width=”354″ height=”532″ /><div align=”center”><small><i>Out of the dugout and onto the field.</i></small></div><br />

There were still some little league moments, where we looked like the Bad News Bears. Jordan took a shot to the nose – playing in left field, a pop fly bounced a few feet in front of him and took a bad hop right at his face. We took him off the field and iced his nose for only a few minutes before he was wiping away the tears and running back out onto the field.

The drama of the game took on an extra bit of excitement when the dark clouds moving towards us from the west opened up for a 5-minute drenching downpour. We were in the field, and our kids suddenly leapt to life. Like a dozen blooming flowers our strange gang of first and second graders jumped with joy and yelped with glee, thrilled with the weather and very quickly soaked to the bone. And I was in the midst of it, standing next to my oldest son in left-center field, giving guidance and encouragement to our team, letting them know where the play was and reminding them to pay attention. Suddenly my youngest son ran out onto the field to stand next to me, his short-cropped hair and white shirt soaked all the way through and grinning from ear to ear. He wasnt there for any reason other than to try to share some of what the team was feeling, and there was no way I was going to tell him to get off the field. He was fine right where he was.

By the end of the game every kid and coach on the field and every parent and sibling sitting on the bleachers increasingly revealed the same intense yearning, as if driven by some psychic magnetism, to hold fast to the diamond. Even though we never caught up in the score, both teams were having so much fun that we extended the game a full two extra innings, and in the last inning we ignored the outs and just let both teams bat around.

Nobody wanted to go home. We had an up and down season, some good games, some frustrating ones. Some tears and some surprises, and our share of pouting and shuffling bored back to the dugout, dropping balls, running the wrong way, and bumps, scrapes and bruises. And at least once a game I found myself tying someone’s shoe, and we even had a surprise appearance by a baby toad in the outfield. But as this last game neared the final out, and the storm clouds had given way to blue skies, the atmosphere seemed to murmur the melancholic gratitude we all shared – a season, or any similar experience, doesnt need to be perfect or brilliant or unbeatable in order to be memorable – in order to be something we never want to let go of.

I wasnt the head coach. I volunteered before the first practice and it was the best decision I’ve made in quite some time. It was an experience I’ll never forget, but it was also the kind of experience that can inspire more of the same. We can always look back on the pictures and videos we made during this season, but those tangible reminders dont need to be all that endures as a result of what we did this year. Both of my sons made new friends because of this team. I made new friends, too. And I got to be the first to congratulate so many kids on things they had never done before – their first hit, their first double play, their first run, their first catch. Giving them high-fives, hugs and fist bumps, when their emotions are quivering excitedly between shock and impossibly pure joy, is like nothing else in the world.

When, as adults, we can live vicariously through the developing emotional and physical education of our children and their friends, themselves growing to realize and appreciate what it mean to be part of a team, it finally makes me believe that we can get high on life.

So I’m sad tonight, because it’s over. My jersey is hanging there. My partner and I must have lamented about the end of the season for more than an hour after we got home today, reminiscing about all the good times we shared. But I’m also happy, because I know that it’s only this season that has ended – and because this season is the start of something that can last for a very long time, if we want it to. It doesnt matter if it inspires another baseball season, or a set of piano lessons, or a new adventure in camping, painting or learning how to hustle friends at the poker table. The inspiration is there for us to do with it as we choose.

So this goes out to all of our kids – Cameron, Jack C., Jack E., Jackson, Jonathan, Jordan, Kieran, Liberty, Luke, Miles, Wyatt and Zach. I love you all. And to our coaches, Vinnie and Brian, and our volunteers who stepped up to help whenever we needed help – Carly and Jake and Dan the Bat Man, and everybody else. And to every kid we played against, and all the coaches in between. I’m grateful to all of them for letting me in on their ride, and I always will be. So even when the rain washes our footprints away from today’s dirt, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to find our way back the way we came, whichever direction it points us in down the road.