The sun set on my boy's second baseball game of the season last night, thirteen to two,
our team in the lead. I stopped watching the ball, and I started watching the faces. I
paid close attention to the boys expressions ... the looks of open optimism and
anticipation as they stepped up to bat. The grim determination as they threw, caught,
and ran with all their might from base to base.
I watched the audience; for the time being left wing or right wing boiled down to which
team you were rooting for. I watched the small children by the bleachers, their hopeful
faces upturned, waiting for the foul ball that they would scramble for and then take to
the concession stand to trade for a sucker.
A boy from the home team tried to steal third. The pitcher was not to be so easily had,
he slammed that ball to the third baseman who caught it deftly and then, noting the
runners close proximity to second, let the ball fly to second base. The second baseman
allowed the ball to slip past him. So the runner, anticipating a home run, did an abrupt
about face and lit a shuck for third base again.
The outfielder snatched the ball out of the air and fired it back to third, leaving our
runner once again penned between second and third base. The runner swung around
and headed at a dead run back to second. The third baseman, still on his toes, blasted
the ball back to second. The second baseman, this time, caught the ball and our runner
was once and for all....OUT!
The audience roared with laughter and applause at this unexpected Abbott and Costello
type play and the players — both teams — laughed and slapped each other on the back
for having provided such quality entertainment.
For just a while our battle was contained to a little league field in rural Florida, and
Fred, being the eloquent man I know and love summed it up for me.
"This is neat."
I grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
"Yeah, it is."
After the game was over, the audience began to stir around, gathering up kids and
belongings, the scent of the honeysuckle lining the stadium fence was thick in the air
and laughter and good natured joking cut through the gathering darkness.
I paused at the fence waiting for our team to finish it's post-game prayer.
“... for seeing us through this game with no injuries, and Lord, please take care of our
soldiers who are fighting in Iraq and bring them home safely ...”
It wasn't expected, the tear that worked it's way from the corner of my eye and slipped
down my cheek.
I found to my shame that I had to find a private place as more tears were clearly
imminent. Not too awful many ... just a few; one for our guys, one for their guys, a
couple for the children of Iraq who know no such joy as a baseball game, and one for
the mothers who are not able experience the gleeful jubilation of watching her son try
to steal third base. One just out of sheer gratitude that the war was happening there,
and not here, and the last one for me, because no matter how hard I try not to be, I'm
just too danged sentimental.
