In Praise of Parents. . . .

I've undergone a conversion. And all it took was a measly two games of Coach-Pitch-Tee-Ball.

Over the past four decades I've blithely stood aside, without helping or even closely watching, myriad young parents carting their young children to organized sporting activities like tee-ball, flag-football, ice-hockey, and soccer. I've watched them volunteering large chunks of time organizing and administering, coaching and officiating, carting their kids hither and yon to far-flung athletic facilities. Who were these avid soccer moms and dads, would-be athletic aficionados, board members and van-chauffeurs, caretakers and fans?

Well!? I went to grandson-Taylor's final game last Saturday. This time I studied these young parents. I recognized them. They reminded me of the young graduate students I'd always admired so much when I was a professor -- hard-working teachers by day, late-afternoon (and evening) students, but renegade sports enthusiasts-all, hard-bent on supporting organized athletic activities for their kids.

They're energetic and caring people, somehow managing to sandwich into their busy days one more deeply-caring parenting activity. And they're having loadsa fun doing it.

I remember with some embarrassment, how often in the past I've listened quietly to pseudo-concerned conversations among largely uninvolved and uninformed older folks who charged that young parents are organizing their elementary-aged children, like so many automatons, into rigid, never-ending after-school-activities.

Tut-tut. . .a bad thing, all these parent-organized athletic activities? Hmmmnnnn!?

Ah YES! (the story goes): in the GOOD OLD DAYS, young children supposedly organized and participated in energetic sports activities all on their own. That's what playgrounds were for, after all. A better time, a time when children took the initiative. No colorful jerseys and matching socks provided by wealthy sponsors for US! No expensive fields (with advertisements for donor commercial firms on the fences) for the tough-minded-do-it-them-selvser kids of MY much-better era.

I usedta listen quietly to this stuff and wonder why it sounded so cranky.

Makes me reflective. Could it be true that the good-old days were not so altogether better? Could it be they were, in fact, not altogether so different? Could it be there have always been energetic and caring parents who in their own ways organized wonderful activities for their kids?

Quite possibly.

I offer in evidence the case of Mr. Glassford.

The Glassfords were an Irish-Catholic family living across the back fence from me when I was growing up. They may have had more than sixteen kids, but I remember when Joseph Bernard Glassford was born, just before I left home to enter college. And I remember Dorothy, who was a high school cheerleader, who later became a nurse with an advanced degree. And I remember Jamie, my older brother's age, who taught me to swim when I was very young. And Jackie, a year younger who taught me a small measure of auto mechanics -- and to recite The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

I remember how some of the older Glassford kids were charged with the responsibility of watching over their toddler siblings. I remember watching that process and realizing suddenly one day WHY Jamie Glassford felt obliged to teach me to swim -- and why he did it so well.

The Glassfords ran a satellite outlet for Slick's Laundry, too, thereby providing service to our neighborhood -- while providing a natural activity that taught the older kids to handle money responsibly, that taught them common-sense human-relations skills, as well.

The Glassford family was so close-knit. The kids were all healthy, good-looking, and bright. They all got good grades. From the outside, it appeared they all got along and liked each other. But what I'm remembering especially this minute is how tightly the family was organized. And how well they played together. . .and how often and well they integrated neighbor-kids like me into their activities.

Work-up softball was one example. Mr. Glassford -- I never knew his first name, and would not have hazarded using it if I had -- worked in one of the Gary (Indiana) steel plants as an electrician. He was part of the little Gary-bus-community that included my mother. Summertime afternoons, he'd get home around 5:30, wash up, and the family'd all sit down for supper. After supper, in good weather, the family'd assemble next door on a grassy empty lot for a raucous game of work-up-pitcher's-hands-out softball.

Often as not, all the neighborhood kids would join in.

In fact, the game was organized pretty much like the game I watched my grandson Taylor play. Only the ball was soft, the field was simple, and paper plates served as bases. And we had no colorful uniforms. Mr. Glassford was the pitcher-umpire.

Everybody played -- toddlers and all. Each toddler and caretaker came up to bat. The older child knelt on her knees, holding the younger against her chest. Four hands on the bat -- two little hands grasped the bat while two older hands held and swung it. Here came the looping ball -- WAP! There went the piddling-little grounder, straight to the pitcher. But Mr. Glassford would be facing the outfield, directing traffic on the bases or gazing blithely skyward, his hand to his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun: where WAS that ball? Never could find it in time!?

We older kids would hit the ball, sometimes deep to the field, but sometimes not. Sometimes the ball would dribble into the infield, and we'd field it ourselves on the way to first base. But, of course, Mr. Glassford either didn't see the ball when we threw it to him, or didn't catch it, if he DID see it.

The games were a rollick!

Mr. Glassford was Buster Keaten, Charlie Chaplin, and Laurel&Hardy all rolled into one. In fact, he could've been a talented film-comic in another life. Remember: the game was PITCHER'S HANDS OUT. One of us would field the ball and toss it to Mr. Glassford -- but of course he couldn't catch it. The ball would bounce lightly off his hands and roll away. He'd run after it, bend over to pick it up, and kick it by mistake. However, soon as the runner crossed first base safely, Mr. Glassford somehow regained his considerable athletic powers, retrieved the ball and soft-pitched it to the next would-be hitter.

The games were hilarious. We all followed Mr. Glassford's example. Nobody ever was called out. The bases were always loaded. Everybody crossed home plate and rotated back out into the crowded field. Imagine a diapered-child, waddling precariously over bumpy ground toward first base, squealing with glee, his older brother or sister walking close behind, hands-off, but alert to snatch the child up in mid-air should he stumble and fall.

I remember those sweet games so fondly. Such family loyalty and responsibility. Such mature, yet playful behavior. It touched me then. It touches me now as I remember. The memories come in waves of sepia. I remember thinking back-then what I still think now. Those games made me wish I were a blood-member of the Glassford clan. I wish I were still brand-new, playing softball in their family-league.

Makes me think. Could be that present-day Little League Baseball is no more about learning baseball than it is about providing a rich extended family experience. I hope so.

I remember the Glassford Family League. It included the entire neighborhood. It was summertime. Sunset came late. Usually games lasted about an hour. Those were simpler times.

But it's true: in the 1940's we didn't have present-day Little League.

But that's okay! We were super-lucky.
We had Mr. Glassford, a softball and bat,
some paper plates for bases,
and his lovely family.