With her socks wrapped all the way up to her knees and her eyeglasses shining through the helmet, the little girl held the bat with a grip so tight that her hands began to turn pale white.
Kicking the fresh red dirt up by her feet, she approached the plate with confidence and even a little anxiety as she dug her cleats into the hard ground.
Scanning the field, she tried to find a spot that would be perfect for a grounder. Maybe, if she squinted hard enough and held her breath, she might could make it all around the bases.
But before the ball left the pitcher’s glove, she turned around and looked over the crowd.
And with a smile, she found her Momma and Daddy who were already clapping and cheering her on.
Turning back around, her anxiety left. She was ready. She had her team cheering her on, and her parents watching.
She eventually made her base. She made her team cheer with support. And she made her parents’ day as she immediately glanced over at them as she stood on her mountain of triumph known as the base…and smiled.
This is what youth softball is all about.
My little and only girl Elsie began Little League season last night, and our cycle so begins within the Patterson home. Our youngest son Jase will begin his season tonight.
But there was a feeling of sadness in the air as I watched my oldest son James at Elsie’s game last night. He plays for his school’s team now. And as he watched his little sister take the base, I realized my James would never do that again as time passes in the Little League world. But what memories we had.
There is no better feeling for me to watch my kids on the ball field.
It is the one time of the year that eating hot dogs and gulping down Gatorades is considered an acceptable supper. It is the time of year homework is done in the bleachers while we wait for games to start. It is the one time of the year that gloves, bats and helmets roll around in the back seats of our cars.
And it is the one time of the year that our kids can be superstars regardless of whether or not they get a hit, slide into a base or walk away with a victory.
For each game, their bodies are filled with confidence, pride and even a little defeat at times. But after each game, they run into our arms for either a celebration dance or a hug to assure them that next time will be better.
It’s small-town America. It’s reconnecting with ball parents and making new friends. It’s field lights and tornadoes of dust.
It’s the best game in town because it’s kids who aren’t worried about playground politics. It’s kids ready to play, and kids do it better than anybody.
Although my oldest James is well past the age of Little League, I still get those same feelings when I see him on the field with his school’s team. He takes it more seriously. He is taller, much taller, than those Little League years. His arms have a little more muscle, and his voice carries a little deeper over the air.
But then I see him grin at me right before blowing a huge bubble of gum out of his mouth. And instantly, he’s my little boy again on that Little League field.
As my kids gather up their equipment each night and we wash their uniforms for the next game, I am reminded that it’s their time to shine.
And as my kids make their way around to home plate, I can’t tell if it is the field lights shining or if it’s their spirits.
Put on your shades parents cause it’s looking bright out here.
