A Little Something About the Game
By Paul Greeley
It was a hot day and I was there to watch
my son, Jordan, play in a Little League baseball game. I didn’t know that a kid
from the other team was about to teach us both a little something about the
game.
It wasn’t long before this kid at third
was tested. The second batter up on Jordan’s team topped a slow bouncer down to
third. The kid fielded it (truth is, the ball pretty much jumped right into his
glove), then struggled to plant his feet. His legs wobbled inside his metal and
plastic braces. It must have been like trying to throw from the deck of a
violently pitching ship. He threw, but by the time the ball reached first, the
runner had long since crossed the bag. The whole play seemed to take forever; I
don’t think there was a sound. The second baseman looked down, disappointed,
then looked up, and yelled over to the kid at third, “Good stop, Timmy!”
Timmy led off the bottom of the inning. He had a decent swing,
considering. But he couldn’t stop his momentum, and the force of each swing
corkscrewed him around. Several times he had to drop his bat, lest he lose his
balance and fall. It was hard to watch. I saw Timmy’s manager say something
forceful to him. I don’t know what he
said, but it worked, because on the next pitch, I heard a crack. The kid had
connected.
They say the hardest plays for
outfielders are the ones hit right at them. There may be some truth in that
because the right fielder took a few steps in. Then, just as the ball appeared
to sail right over his head, his glove shot up and he leaned back awkwardly,
the ball hitting squarely in the mitt as if drawn by magnets.
Timmy, only a third of the way down the line to first base, turned
toward the dugout, the manager and his teammates waiting with outstretched
hands and pats on the butt.
Several innings passed without incident until the fourth. A batter on
Jordan’s team popped up toward third. If anything can be said to be a routine
pop up, even for Little Leaguers, this was it. Timmy got his glove up and began
circling under it, his legs like jelly quivering. At the last second, he lunged
forward, lost his balance and fell, the ball dropping softly right into his
glove. He made the catch! As I started clapping, I realized I’d been holding my
breath. A few parents clapped with me, a knowing glance passing silently
between us. As the whole infield gathered round to pick Timmy up and head into
the dugout, I thought any one of them could have made that catch, but no one
called him off.
Since there’s a time limit to these games, the managers had agreed that
this would be the last inning, and since Timmy’s team was the home team, they
got to bat last, trailing by a run.
Jordan was now
playing third base. At this level, the players are moved around throughout the
game, giving each a feel for the different positions. I watched Jordan’s
manager survey the field and say to no one in particular, “gotta keep it in the
infield.” His haphazard rotation had placed the smaller, weaker players in the
outfield.
The first batter up on Timmy’s team hit a
fly ball the right fielder misplayed. It bounced over his head and rolled to
the fence. By the time the play was over, the batter stood at second. The next
batter up was Timmy. I’m ashamed to say that as he made his way to the plate, I
thought ‘easy out.’ And two sad swings later, it looked as if Timmy would
oblige. But the kid surprised me. He met the next pitch solidly, sending it
between center and right field. The runner scored easily, tying the game and
although Jordan’s team threw the ball all over the place, the kid barely made
it to first. It looked as if this was his first time on base.
I don’t remember if I clapped or not, but
Timmy’s teammates erupted from the dugout, clapping and yelling. The manager,
clipboard in hand and pretty excited himself, ushered them all back inside the
dugout. There, they pressed their little faces against the fence and continued
yelling.
The first base coach held Timmy by the
shoulders as he gave him instructions. The kid nodded, adjusted his helmet, and
turned back to survey the field.
I wondered what was going through the
manager’s mind. After all, Timmy represented the winning run. I know what I was
thinking. I saw a woman approach the dugout and say something to the manager.
Timmy stood close to the first base bag.
He looked down to the second; it would be a long run for him. But he didn’t
have much time to think about it. The next batter hit the first pitch up the
middle, a hundred-hopper, and the kid started driving for second base.
Whatever
was wrong with Timmy’s legs, running just wasn’t in them. I thought he’d fall
for sure. The ball was coming in from the outfield; it looked as if the kid was
going to be out. Then the kid surprised me again. Just feet from bag, the kid
slid, head first. I say slid, but with no momentum at all, it was more like he
plopped on the bag. It was ugly. His chin hit the dirt hard, knocking his
helmet askew. But he beat the tag!
I was up and clapping now, yelling, too.
Jordan shot a glance at me from third. Timmy’s manager was halfway across the
field, meeting Jordan’s manager at the mound. I overheard Timmy’s manager say
that the kid’s mother was afraid he’d get hurt. He was taking Timmy out for a
pinch runner.
I don’t know what the manager said to
Timmy, standing out there at second base. But whatever it was, Timmy wasn’t
buying it. He shook his head emphatically. The manager paused, then trotted off
the field. He whispered something to Timmy’s mom standing next to the dugout
and she looked out at Timmy and nodded.
In the meantime, Jordan’s manager was
reminding everyone that the winning run was on second. At third, Jordan nodded
to his manager. The next player up already had a couple clean hits in this
game. The pitching machine delivered, and the batter ripped a hard line drive,
but just foul down the third base line. The manager looked at me and rolled his
eyes.
“Hey coach,” I yelled, “want me to warm up
another machine?” He grinned.
The batter roped the next pitch over the
shortstop. At second, Timmy took one wobbly step and stopped. The third base
coach was yelling at him to go, but he looked confused. If the kid had any
chance to make third, he needed a good jump. Hearing the coach, Timmy started
for third. Jordan was at the bag waiting for the throw. Timmy, his face red
with effort, was only half way there when the cut off man took the throw,
turned, dropped it, then deftly picked it up and fired to third.
Jordan and I use to practice this all the
time. Take the throw out in front, sweep the glove across the base path, tag
the runner. But this time, Jordan let the ball handcuff him in the belly. He
couldn’t seem to get his glove down. Timmy, just moments ago a sure out, again
plopped ugly onto third without a play.
The place was going nuts! Players,
parents, and coaches screaming, yelling, and clapping. I stood and looked at
Jordan for a sign of some kind. The third base coach hauled Timmy up and dusted
him off. I saw Jordan say something to Timmy and the kid smiled. His face was
bright red. I’m sure he’d never run that far in his life. He leaned down to
adjust the braces on his legs. I looked at his mother.
She stood against the fence clutching a
handkerchief to her mouth as if all the air in the world were inside it.
I don’t remember the next batter coming
up or the machine delivering the pitch. But somewhere in all the mayhem, a
batter put one in the outfield. Timmy dragged himself toward home. He looked
tired.
I never saw a kid put so much effort into
moving, his whole body was pumping, gyrating, his every being focused on
getting to home plate. For him, running was a total body effort. I got the
feeling he would have crawled on his hands and knees if he had to.
What happened next is open to conjecture.
The ball came in from the outfield in foul territory down the third base line.
Maybe Jordan got excited. He took the throw, turned, and fired the ball way
over the catcher’s head.
Timmy scored easily; his teammates flew
from the dugout, piling on him in a cloud of dust at thome plate. The kid
scored. The game was over. They won.
I don’t know if there were any other tears
being shed anywhere; I was too busy hiding mine. However, I can tell you nobody
was sitting. Jordan walked toward me, and we watched the celebration together
quietly. He’s not a good loser and I used to worry about that. But as I put my
arm around him, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “good game, huh, dad?” I
swallowed hard and said, “yeah, son, real good game.”
As Timmy’s team filed past us toward the
concession stand, I heard him ask, “Mom, can I get an ice cream?”
Copyright by Paul Greeley
Paul Greeley
1556 Shadyside Rd.
West Chester, Pa. 19380
817-578-6324
