occasional baby-sitting,
reading to kids and telling stories,
just barely surviving wild sword-fights,
avoiding mortal injury while tussling on rug or sofa,
mastering and teaching"athletic" activities on wii,
helping neophytes solve the mysteries of skipping,
bike-pedaling, or throwing and catching a ball.
reading to kids and telling stories,
just barely surviving wild sword-fights,
avoiding mortal injury while tussling on rug or sofa,
mastering and teaching"athletic" activities on wii,
helping neophytes solve the mysteries of skipping,
bike-pedaling, or throwing and catching a ball.
Nor does taking grandchildren out to meals and to movies suffice. Nor does taking them on walks in the park. It's simply NOT-ENOUGH to do lots of active things with your kids -- and your kids' kids. You must also sit idly by watching them do things with other kids' kids -- whether they do these things very well or not.
Hence: soccer, Tee-ball. . .anything short of robbing banks. And: OHmaGOD. . .I forgot about eventually teaching them to drive.
So anyway, bravely donning my best won't-this-be-fun face, I went to this Tee-ball game yesterday. The trip there made me feel slightly holy: kinda like I was willingly submitting myself to an undeserved death sentence, or worse: 'Tis a far-far better thing I now do, than I have ever done before. The guillotine kept clopping down in the background.
One good thing: all the way there, I was able to reach back from my shot-gun position, suitably attending poor Konnor, who sat nearly defenseless, tightly strapped into his car-seat. I gently poked and tickled him in the ribs, stole his nose and gobbled it up along with his right ear, tickled his knee, grabbed his outstretched foot and stole his shoe, and generally pestered him lovingly all the way to the park, thereby making him feel important. After all, this was not HIS T-ball game, even though he clearly wished it were. I wanted to keep him laughing.
A grampa's duties are not easy! They demand vast creative energy and an unquenchable appetite for childish mischief.
My technique musta worked: because Konnor later held my hand tightly, all the way through the busy parking lot, twisting around all-wide-eyed, guiding me carefully, reminding me at nearly every-other step that "this place is just like the road" -- thereby delivering me safely to the ball diamond.
Taylor ran ahead. The rest of us got there just in time to set up our canvas chairs along the third-base line and get settled in.
Some impressions:
Gorgeous day! Cloudless blue sky. Temperatures in the low 70's. Nice breeze. Juicy-Tasty bubble-gum -- for the first few minutes. Lotsa beaming-proud parents.
Beautiful field. Smooth and grassy. Recently groomed, newly-raked, brown-sandy-clay base-paths.
Taylor's Orange Team: about 14 players. Red Team about the same number. A few pony-tails and braids peeking out beneath the backs of large baseball caps. All outfitted in crisp uniforms. The orange team wore white leggings, the Red gray. Nifty little baseball shoes with rubber ridged soles instead of spikes. Their baseball caps were huge with appropriately rolled bills so long it was difficult to see the players' faces.
Some of the kids were tiny: not quite thirty inches tall. Each player looked something like a character from a Peanuts cartoon. Endearing, that's the precise word. Hilariously inept. . .the precise phrase. I never laughed so hard in my life. Watching these kids play was the most fun I've had in years.
There were four adults on the field: the pitcher, the catcher, and one adult placed casually where the shortstop and second basemen might settle in a regulation game. They may have been the most helpful of all the adults near the field. Keeping kids orderly and safe is not always easy. I don't mean they were bossy. I mean they were busily helpful to the kids. As in, a quick tap on a shoulder, a warm smile, a hand pointing toward third base: "That way, Billy. . . ." Or, a quick side-step to the left, a big foot clamping a hard roller to the ground, a wink and: "Get it Holly!" (Geez! I loved those guys! Heroes all!)
Actually, the Tee (of Tee-Ball) was hardly used. This game was new to me. I think the game is what's called Coach-Pitch-Tee-Ball. After an apparently undetermined number of pitches, the catcher quickly sets-up the Tee, and the batter strikes the ball best he can into the infield. . .where all apposing players stand ready to jump nimbly to safety or retrieve any ball that comes near them. In fact, most of the kids managed to hit the ball thrown from the pitcher's hand. It seemed to me that the pitcher threw the ball more than intended, especially when it appeared the batter's swing looked increasingly promising. A kind of KIND baseball. What genius ever thought of THAT!
The adults on the field were wonderful. Everything they did and said was encouraging and helpful. It was as if they were willing the ball onto the bat, as if they were stopping the struck ball with a quick foot and nudging it toward the nearest kid's glove.
I have to say: the most impressive ball-handling was performed by the pitchers and catchers. Realize please: small kids, tiny strike zone. The pitcher threw overhand. Sometimes he knelt like a catcher. But the pitcher and catcher kept three balls in play, and kept on delivering the ball almost entirely within the strike zone. The pitchers didn't throw hard and fast. But they threw consistently into the strike zone. And most of the kids managed to put the bat onto the ball, though it may have taken a dozen balls or more before they did. The hitters were elated. I was impressed. As I watched the game, I thought: This is a wonderful , exciting, and kindly game.
The game lasted three innings. There were no outs! Every team-member came to bat once each inning. The hitter always got on base. Even if by some miracle, the ball was quickly fielded and thrown to first base where it might be caught before the runner got there, the runner stayed in play and advanced with each subsequent hit. Sometimes kids ran in the wrong direction. Sometimes they piled-up on a single base. Never fear: the line coaches shoo'd the kids along in the right direction whenever the ball was in play.
Nobody kept score. No fans could stop laughing. But the laughter expressed more fondness and sweet-delight than anything else. We watch grown children and perennially child-like men play baseball. They play astonishingly well as they grow. We forget how difficult the game truly is. I tell you the truth: it was the best baseball game I ever saw.
For instance, the fielding was a special delight. The ball would zip off the bat. If it got past the coach on the baseline and dribbled into the near outfield, four or five kids would converge on it as if it were a live thing, and bound down onto their knees trying to scoop it up. The lucky winner would then leap to his feet and throw the ball to the nearest base. It's difficult to throw a regulation-sized baseball with a tiny hand and an uncertain arm. But that's okay. None of the players could catch it anyway. When the ball did wind up in a fielder's glove, the crowd responded with astonished cheers and applause. Such catches were few and accidental, I'm certain.
It was a great crowd. Every adult applauded every bumbling error, every faltering swing of the bat, every failed catch, every wild throw,. There was no real orange or red.
Nobody won. Nobody lost. The only certain outcome was that at the end of the game the players lined up at the concession stand and collected a treat their parents had paid for before the game. It was all quite orderly and. . .sweetly delightful.
Hence: soccer, Tee-ball. . .anything short of robbing banks. And: OHmaGOD. . .I forgot about eventually teaching them to drive.
So anyway, bravely donning my best won't-this-be-fun face, I went to this Tee-ball game yesterday. The trip there made me feel slightly holy: kinda like I was willingly submitting myself to an undeserved death sentence, or worse: 'Tis a far-far better thing I now do, than I have ever done before. The guillotine kept clopping down in the background.
One good thing: all the way there, I was able to reach back from my shot-gun position, suitably attending poor Konnor, who sat nearly defenseless, tightly strapped into his car-seat. I gently poked and tickled him in the ribs, stole his nose and gobbled it up along with his right ear, tickled his knee, grabbed his outstretched foot and stole his shoe, and generally pestered him lovingly all the way to the park, thereby making him feel important. After all, this was not HIS T-ball game, even though he clearly wished it were. I wanted to keep him laughing.
A grampa's duties are not easy! They demand vast creative energy and an unquenchable appetite for childish mischief.
My technique musta worked: because Konnor later held my hand tightly, all the way through the busy parking lot, twisting around all-wide-eyed, guiding me carefully, reminding me at nearly every-other step that "this place is just like the road" -- thereby delivering me safely to the ball diamond.
Taylor ran ahead. The rest of us got there just in time to set up our canvas chairs along the third-base line and get settled in.
Some impressions:
Gorgeous day! Cloudless blue sky. Temperatures in the low 70's. Nice breeze. Juicy-Tasty bubble-gum -- for the first few minutes. Lotsa beaming-proud parents.
Beautiful field. Smooth and grassy. Recently groomed, newly-raked, brown-sandy-clay base-paths.
Taylor's Orange Team: about 14 players. Red Team about the same number. A few pony-tails and braids peeking out beneath the backs of large baseball caps. All outfitted in crisp uniforms. The orange team wore white leggings, the Red gray. Nifty little baseball shoes with rubber ridged soles instead of spikes. Their baseball caps were huge with appropriately rolled bills so long it was difficult to see the players' faces.
Some of the kids were tiny: not quite thirty inches tall. Each player looked something like a character from a Peanuts cartoon. Endearing, that's the precise word. Hilariously inept. . .the precise phrase. I never laughed so hard in my life. Watching these kids play was the most fun I've had in years.
There were four adults on the field: the pitcher, the catcher, and one adult placed casually where the shortstop and second basemen might settle in a regulation game. They may have been the most helpful of all the adults near the field. Keeping kids orderly and safe is not always easy. I don't mean they were bossy. I mean they were busily helpful to the kids. As in, a quick tap on a shoulder, a warm smile, a hand pointing toward third base: "That way, Billy. . . ." Or, a quick side-step to the left, a big foot clamping a hard roller to the ground, a wink and: "Get it Holly!" (Geez! I loved those guys! Heroes all!)
Actually, the Tee (of Tee-Ball) was hardly used. This game was new to me. I think the game is what's called Coach-Pitch-Tee-Ball. After an apparently undetermined number of pitches, the catcher quickly sets-up the Tee, and the batter strikes the ball best he can into the infield. . .where all apposing players stand ready to jump nimbly to safety or retrieve any ball that comes near them. In fact, most of the kids managed to hit the ball thrown from the pitcher's hand. It seemed to me that the pitcher threw the ball more than intended, especially when it appeared the batter's swing looked increasingly promising. A kind of KIND baseball. What genius ever thought of THAT!
The adults on the field were wonderful. Everything they did and said was encouraging and helpful. It was as if they were willing the ball onto the bat, as if they were stopping the struck ball with a quick foot and nudging it toward the nearest kid's glove.
I have to say: the most impressive ball-handling was performed by the pitchers and catchers. Realize please: small kids, tiny strike zone. The pitcher threw overhand. Sometimes he knelt like a catcher. But the pitcher and catcher kept three balls in play, and kept on delivering the ball almost entirely within the strike zone. The pitchers didn't throw hard and fast. But they threw consistently into the strike zone. And most of the kids managed to put the bat onto the ball, though it may have taken a dozen balls or more before they did. The hitters were elated. I was impressed. As I watched the game, I thought: This is a wonderful , exciting, and kindly game.
The game lasted three innings. There were no outs! Every team-member came to bat once each inning. The hitter always got on base. Even if by some miracle, the ball was quickly fielded and thrown to first base where it might be caught before the runner got there, the runner stayed in play and advanced with each subsequent hit. Sometimes kids ran in the wrong direction. Sometimes they piled-up on a single base. Never fear: the line coaches shoo'd the kids along in the right direction whenever the ball was in play.
Nobody kept score. No fans could stop laughing. But the laughter expressed more fondness and sweet-delight than anything else. We watch grown children and perennially child-like men play baseball. They play astonishingly well as they grow. We forget how difficult the game truly is. I tell you the truth: it was the best baseball game I ever saw.
For instance, the fielding was a special delight. The ball would zip off the bat. If it got past the coach on the baseline and dribbled into the near outfield, four or five kids would converge on it as if it were a live thing, and bound down onto their knees trying to scoop it up. The lucky winner would then leap to his feet and throw the ball to the nearest base. It's difficult to throw a regulation-sized baseball with a tiny hand and an uncertain arm. But that's okay. None of the players could catch it anyway. When the ball did wind up in a fielder's glove, the crowd responded with astonished cheers and applause. Such catches were few and accidental, I'm certain.
It was a great crowd. Every adult applauded every bumbling error, every faltering swing of the bat, every failed catch, every wild throw,. There was no real orange or red.
Nobody won. Nobody lost. The only certain outcome was that at the end of the game the players lined up at the concession stand and collected a treat their parents had paid for before the game. It was all quite orderly and. . .sweetly delightful.
I have to use that phrase again.
It captures the essence of the game exactly!
One more game Saturday. I'll be there!
It captures the essence of the game exactly!
One more game Saturday. I'll be there!
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