A Battle for the Ages. Ages 3-5, That Is.
The world seems a blighted and ornery place, but I do have some good news: kids still know how to have fun. Maybe they can teach us.
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First, your moment of Zen … In case you’re one of the few remaining humans on the planet who have not seen the viral video of 6-year old Mattea DiGirolamo doing a cartwheel while running to first base during a t-ball game, here you are:
My favorite part: her dad saying “Again!” as the other team charges indiscriminately at the ball and she scampers untouched to first base. Mattea, it turns out, is also interested in gymnastics and has been practicing cartwheels all spring.
She was safe, of course.
Tuesday, June 13, 2023
The world is a-wailing and a-gnashing its teeth, cavin’ in all around us. Smoke from Canadian wildfires drifting as far south as the Carolinas and as far west as Missouri, yielding iconic images of the haze-wreathed Statue of Liberty and US Capitol Building.
Dark energy all around and pressing inward on us. As of June 11, there’d been 20 mass shootings in the USA this month, or almost two a day. Three of them were in Texas.
And then last Friday, as if all this craziness wasn’t enough, a group of ordinary citizens in Florida indicted a former president of the US of A. First time in history, can you believe that? Criminally, no less. And not for swindling a bank or overcharging for an awful speech at a Mary Kay convention. Nope. They said he mishandled a bunch of top secret documents, bragging to the schmucks at one of his golf courses that he knew how to invade Iran or Iraq, I forget which one. The grand jury determined that TFG committed 31 violations of the Espionage Act. Like, spy stuff. Apparently there’s no stupidity exception to that Act.
In the midst of the dark skies, though, there are some rays of sunshine. And I was lucky enough to find a few.
A couple Saturdays ago, I went to the big t-ball game between the Blue Jays and the Braves. The day was cool and lovely, the sky painted over with clouds waiting to burn off as the temperature got warmer.
I meandered down a long dirt road to the town baseball stadium. There, unlike anywhere else for miles around, the grass was green and well-manicured. Cars and pickup trucks were pulled up alongside the fence, and the no-frills bleachers were full.
I could smell the intensity of the rivalry as I pulled up. It did not smell like napalm in the morning; in fact, it smelled like … a concession stand. The rich aromas of breakfast tacos and hot dogs hung in the air. The concession stand was staffed by some of the parents, who’d gotten up early that morning to grill up hot dogs and make tacos, wrapping everything in aluminum foil and stowing it in chests to bring to the game. Bottled water and Cokes were also available.
Both teams were arrayed in their fine uniforms, and there was a large delegation of parents, aunts and uncles, and even some grandparents in attendance. Older brothers and sisters wandered around, too, bored and wondering when it would be over.
The players were all between the ages of three and five, and the teams were co-ed. At this age, a t-ball game less resembles the intricate ballet of the Houston Astros than a bunch of minnows attacking a piece of bread.
The defensive alignment is vaguely familiar to anyone who’s seen a baseball game. There’s a pitcher, who does not pitch, and a catcher, who does not catch. There are first, second, and third basepersons, and a shortstop. These players are stationed in the basepaths, although the ball is rarely hit that far. The remaining players on the team are scattered randomly around the outfield, which is the area only three feet behind the basepaths. Touching the ball as an outfielder is a rarity. I suspect the coaches stave off mutinies in the outfield by circulating the outfielders into the infield and vice versa.
Offensively, t-ball does not concern itself with strikes, balls or outs. An inning consists of everyone on the team batting and then rounding the bases, be they 12 or 20 in number. Each batter comes to the plate (introduced with great gusto by the announcer, speaking over “Highway to Hell.”) Why is it always “Highway to Hell?” Why not, for instance, “Centerfield?”
The batter can try to swing at some pitches from their coach (hence the non-pitching pitchers) or just tee the ball up on the contraption provided for that purpose (hence, “t-ball”). The braver kids will try to hit a thrown pitch, usually missing three or four before conceding to have the ball placed on the tee. The less confident players go for the tee straight away.
(A pink-helmeted Blue Jay – or is it a Brave? – breaks for first base after somehow connecting with the ball.)
When the ball is hit, all hell breaks loose. No matter where the ball goes, the pitcher, infielders and some of the outfielders converge on it, literally falling over each other to get a firm grasp on it. And then – what? If anyone has the presence of mind to throw to first base, they will likely as not find the first baseperson in the scrum with them, 30 feet from the bag. Which, of course, does not stop them from throwing it anyway. On the rare occasions when a fielder actually gets the ball to first base, the runner usually has arrived long before.
Not surprisingly, the bases fill up pretty quickly, making a force-out at home plate the go-to defensive play. This would ordinarily highlight the talents of the catchers, but neither of them that morning seemed particularly interested in that aspect of the game. Or any other.
The Blue Jays pitcher, however, grokked this and would grab the ball out of the scrum of players booting it around the infield and make a beeline for home plate, arriving seconds after the runner had scored. She’d make a very self-satisfied leap onto the plate with both feet, celebrating her situational awareness on the field, even if it did not affect the outcome.
Which was fine, because there are no outs in t-ball. A team’s at-bat ends when all the kids have batted, gotten to first and made the loop around the bases. Each team has two at-bats, and that’s the game. One mother told me that, after two innings, “attention span becomes a problem.” I didn’t ask her if she was referring to the players or the parents.
The whole game took about an hour. After it ended, the two teams formed their lines and shook hands with their opponents. The coaches, who’d spent the game tossing balls, reminding batters which way to run, and encouraging infielders to throw the ball once they’d caught it, seemed tired and relieved.
And it was all very nice. I suspect the age bracket had something to do with it, but the field was awash in sweetness and light. The kids were genuinely enjoying themselves, within the limits of the aforementioned attention spans. None of the parents shouting at umpires or dressing down their kids here. There will be plenty of time for that as they age.
Maybe, during a summer that looks to be imbued with environmental catastrophe, social controversy, and even violence, we need to find the sweet little heart of a 3-years old’s t-ball game for ourselves. When the outrage of how they’re treating Donald Trump just boils up in your throat, take the kids out for some ice cream. When you cannot stand what they’re doing to our environment anymore, grab the family and head to a Texas state park, where they are celebrating their 100thanniversary.
Or – and I highly recommend this – go watch some little kids play t-ball. It will do you wonders.
Paxton Impeachment Watch … The big news at the end of last week was the arrest and formal charging of Paxton bestie Nate Paul in connection with false statements to financial institutions. He allegedly inflated his assets in order to obtain loans from them. (Where have I heard this before?)
The allegations do not implicate Paxton, but remember: it was Nate Paul’s belief that the F.B.I. was persecuting him that got Paxton into some of his alleged malfeasance. More on this on Friday …
Speaking of Impeachment Watch … My smart friend Jim Moore and I did a podcast-via-text-message analysis of the state of play in Paxton’s impeachment last Friday which Jim published in his superb Texas to the World. Go for our conversation, stay to enjoy Jim’s excellent writing and storytelling. You can also get the text stream on my page here.
Have a good week!
Although folks in Michigan and Georgia claim to be home plate for the invention on t ball, in my home state we credit Clyde Muse, principal of my high school, with its creation. Coach Muse is still living and his children insist they remember helping build the “t” and their father creating rules for the game which quickly became popular in the state. No matter who had the idea first, it
Is great fun to watch the little guys swagger to the “t”.