Little League is almost over, and my last umpire shift is tonight, since I’m off to Anchorage for an author event Friday at UAA and will miss the final game.
Of course I read the news about shots fired at a field full of kids in the Lower 48. I am trying not to think about that, or the January 6 hearings, or Covid galloping through Haines, again, or that bat with rabies in Juneau. There is nothing I can say to you about any of this that you don’t already know, or that can make it better, except vote and make sure your vaccines and your dogs’ vaccines are up to date.
Mostly, after I listen to the news, I lie on the floor with my legs up the wall and hum Patsy Cline’s Stop the World (and Let me Off.)
Instead, I will tell you how great Little League is. And not just the spiffy uniforms and gear. There are girls playing, my granddaughters included—and women coaching and umping. I am one of at least four female officials. The whole scene at the Haines ballpark is full of good will and good sports. Last week a boy who really did not want to pitch had to, as he was the only player on his team who hadn’t thrown the limited number of pitches allowed that week, and who could (sort of) toss the ball near the plate and not send a batter to the clinic. He was very brave, but clearly in emotional distress. But both teams and all of the coaches and fans encouraged him. I figured if he threw a hit-able pitch, it was a strike.
In the summers of my childhood, in my memory anyway, we played baseball every day. There weren’t enough players for two full teams so we took turns hitting and fielding and called our own balls and strikes; fouls and outs. We played until the mothers rang the dinner bells. I know that on my tenth birthday I slept with a new mitt under my pillow. I still love the smell of neatsfoot oil.
When the neighborhood boys signed up for Little League, I stayed home. Girls weren’t allowed. I did play softball in school and as an adult, but I wished I could have played baseball. I loved it.
When I’m calling a Little League game, I feel less like a judge and more like a kind of floating coach. One nimble little catcher –(we spend a lot of time together behind the plate, diving to or from hard, fast– and sometimes wild pitches, in all of our armor)– expressed surprise that I wanted the batter to get a hit; I explained that I want his teammates to have the opportunity to field the ball. I said I hoped he would hit when he’s up next. The game is called baseball, kiddo, not basewalk or baseout or pitch-catch.
It’s been years since I played, but the game is still about a kid hitting a ball with a bat and trying to run around the bases while the other kids do their best to stop her. After three outs, it is the other team’s turn.
The classroom of baseball teaches so many life lessons. Once you learn them you don’t need an umpire. You know what’s fair and what’s not. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels better about the world when players and coaches from both teams shake hands and say ‘good game’ at the end. Being good winners is as important as being good losers. Sooner or later we are all one or the other. As Satchel Paige observed, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose and sometimes it rains. I hope it dries out before tonight. I’m looking forward to one more good game.
