"Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own." Robert A. Heinlein Our harsh winter appears to have left us for good-at least until November-and the veritable heat wave we're experiencing now has left us with a supreme case of Spring Fever. Folks are outside gardening, children are scootering, and shoppers are-once again-strolling throughout downtown. And Little League has officially begun. We are brand new to Little League, my husband and I. We've got the soccer thing down pat, and the basketball, lacrosse, and tennis thing, too. But none of our kids have ever played baseball. My oldest expressed interest some ten years ago-and actually played a season's worth of T-ball-but having never been one to enjoy sitting on hot bleachers while pregnant-as seemed to be the case every other Spring-we never particularly encouraged the sport. But funny how mellow one becomes with the fourth kid. Call it him needing to discover a sport tackled by no older sibling, call it him trying to carve a unique niche in the family. or call it late fortysomething parents who are letting the fourth kid practically raise himself: we have become Little League parents now whether we like it or not. And what a glorious celebration of the sport we had this weekend! With temperatures soaring into the 60's, blue skies, and none of the rain we've endured all week, several hundred moms and dads arrived at our high school stadium early on Saturday morning to experience Little League's "Opening Ceremonies." Kids met their coaches and team managers on the parking lot ramp to assemble into teams; parents made their way into the stadium, finding shaded bleachers to enjoy quick chats with neighbors and friends, their early morning Starbucks and-if they were lucky-a brief read of one section of The New York Times. In true New England small-town style, we rose for an invocation led by a local minister, patriotically recited the Pledge of Allegiance, and stood awestruck as a Little League mom sang one of the most magnificent renditions of the National anthem I'd ever heard. All in the name of America's favorite pastime. Teams paraded onto the field, one by one, with coaches' and managers' names announced via megaphone, kids waving to moms and dads in the stands, and parents cheering wildly for their hometown-business-sponsored-kid's team. But if the kids were cute at the kick-off, they were utterly adorable at their games. These little boys, unable to run upstairs at bedtime, ran quickly and aggressively from base to base as if their little lives depended on it. These same boys, who couldn't run a comb through their hair in preparation for church on Sundays, had their heads all figured out with perfectly situated caps, proudly worn, as if a badge of American honor. Some of the boys, having played for a couple years, handled the ball with finesse well beyond what one would expect from 8-year-olds. Batters hit home-runs, mid-fielders-with mitts facing skyward-caught well-hit balls, and little boys, barely able to recite their times tables, recited the number of runs by each team perfectly. It was with middle-aged wisdom that I watched dads shouting out commands to their sons. "Thumbs up!" or "Steal to third!" screamed the guys next to me. Still trying to get a baseball head on my shoulders, I would only humiliate myself confessing to you my lack of knowledge of the game. Don't get me wrong: when Victor batted a great ground ball, I screamed like every other mom: "Run...run!" But as an older-O.K., perhaps the oldest-parent in the stands, I brought not knowledge or experience to the game. That I certainly didn't possess. I brought to this fourth child of mine's game the ability-finally-to sit and revel in his enjoyment in playing a sport. In learning something new. With no preconceived notions of how well he should perform. Or how he stacked up to other kids his own age. Of how coordinated or uncoordinated he was. Or of if he'd ever be able to get into college on this. I brought to this game the quiet resignation that this was going to be my life for possibly the next ten Springs. But I also brought to those bleachers joy previously encumbered by baby's nursing schedules and toddler's nap schedules. Joy that never fully blossomed with my other kids because I was too busy for it. This weekend I was able to see it exactly for what it was. And allow it to take hold of me. Exactly how it was supposed to. I brought to my other kids' sporting events exhaustion, frustration, and apprehension. But for this fourth and youngest, I was able to bring pure unadulterated delight. And that, for me, is growth. |
