Long live little league
It is officially summer which means little league summer travel season is in full swing. Not to be confused with spring rec ball or fall ball – summer baseball is all consuming. Between games, practices and one eleven-year-old boy that currently can’t get enough, we are living, eating, and breathing baseball over here.
Baseball has been a common denominator throughout my life. Which is an interesting thing for someone who has never been described as athletic to say. In fact, some of my earliest memories revolve around America’s greatest pastime.
My mother was home with me for all of my early childhood. During the day we played, watched As The World Turns and I would tag along as she sold Mary Kay makeup at house parties. The evenings were my time with Dad. After dinner he was in charge of giving me my bath and subsequently chasing me around the house to dry me off. Then I would sit at his feet in front of our big box television so that he could brush out my hair with Johnson & Johnson detangler spray while watching whatever baseball game was being broadcast on basic cable.
“And that 6-4-3 double play will end the inning.” The sportscaster announced before heading to a commercial break.
“Daddy, what does 6-4-3 mean?”
“You know a double play is when two runners get out in a single play.”
“Yeah, Daddy, I KNOW!” It should come as a shock to absolutely no one that I was a bit of a know-it-all as a child…
“Well, each position has a number assigned to it: pitcher is one, catcher is two…”
My dad’s immediate family are all baseball zealots with a particular reverence for the St. Louis Cardinals where they were born and raised. This obsession was passed down to my brother and I, seemingly as genetic as my thick hair and allergies. I tried playing softball through our local YMCA for a couple seasons. Apparently, knowledge of the game does not equate to skill. Much to the relief of my teammates and family I had retired from sports by fifth grade.
My brother on the other hand loved to play and was good enough to make a club team. Even with a six year age gap and a full social calendar, I rarely missed his games.
“Let’s go Microstud!” I would yell every time he got up to bat. He was a “late bloomer”, as my mother liked to remind him, and so one of the smallest kids on the team.To his credit, instead of being embarrassed he rolled with the nickname and even seemed to take pride in it. Or, maybe I was 17 and didn’t care what he thought. Either way, I loved going to his games and cheering him on.
In college I tried turning my love of the game into a career. It certainly felt more stable than the acting dreams I harbored. That was until I took a couple internships with professional sports teams and saw how poorly my female bosses were treated by their coworkers, the hours they were expected to put in and how little they were paid. If I wanted to be mistreated and underpaid while hustling I would much rather go back to performing… so I did.
It was 2011, game 6 of the world series: my Cardinals vs Miguel’s Texas Rangers. Miguel had just finished performing in a reading of a new musical and we were headed to a bar to watch the end of the game. The Cardinals had to win to stay alive and they would miraculously pull it off in extra innings and then go on to win game seven to take the series. That night Miguel and I razzed and cheered in each other’s faces, amongst our friends, all the while keeping a secret: I was eight weeks pregnant.
Basically, Jackson didn’t stand a chance.
In all the ways that I would dream about Adelaide in dance classes, I have looked forward to cheering Jackson on at little league games. (Not that Adelaide, or Strawbaby for that matter, couldn’t/can’t also play ball, but I digress). Maybe for that reason, I don’t take a single game for granted. Rain, cold or heat I will do my best to be there in the stands, in a folding chair or on a blanket.
There is just something so special about little league that you don’t get when taking in a professional team. Besides getting to watch your own kid play, over time you get to know the other players as well. You sit with their parents and, thanks to the slower pace of the game, even get to know them. Lasting friendships are made – my parents are STILL friends with some of my brother’s teammates’ parents 20+ years later. We get to sit closer to the field, the players, our players, can actually hear us cheering for them. And all this makes the emotional investment that much more real.
When Jackson’s rec team won the championship game last season, I think I was happier than after that 2011 Cardinals World Series victory. And I will never forget when Jackson hit his first triple just a couple weeks ago. The smile on his face, his fists pumping in the air. There is truly nothing more magical. Are they the most well played games? Absolutely not. I have to sensor my cringe face on the regular but that only adds to the beauty as we watch these kids grow as players and teammates.
Yes, little league has taken over our lives, but I’m so happy it has, and I will miss it when it’s gone. A special thank you to my dad for instilling in me this love of the game so that whenever I’m greeted by the sight of a dirt diamond it feels a little like coming home. Minus the smell of the detangling spray.
Long live little league.
Image description: Kelly as an infant wearing a St. Louis Cardinals onesie and a baseball hat that is way too big. She has two fingers in her mouth and is sitting on her dad's lap. Her dad is wearing a grey striped button down, has a mustache and aviator style tinted glasses.
