Opening Day for Teeball

            Have you ever spread metal filings across a table and then dropped a magnet in the middle of them.  The filings immediately swarm towards the magnet until they are surrounding it, some of them clinging to it.  Well, that essentially is teeball.  One child hits the ball off the tee and all the kids in the field swarm, sometimes tackling each other in the process of trying to get the ball.  But still there is something cute and adorable about little kids trying on and sampling a big boys’ game.  There is an innocence, a sweetness and a simplicity that eventually gets devoured once statistics start getting recorded and the need to win somehow shuts out everything else.

            Two days ago, I asked my son if he was excited about his upcoming teeball game.  Our conversation went as follows:

Me: Are you excited about playing t-ball tomorrow?
My Son: What team am I on?
Me: The Orioles.
My Son: It [the picture on his hat] looks more like a penguin.
Me: No it doesn't, that's just what your teacher thought.
My Son: It can't be an Oriole, because it's not a cookie.
Me: No, Oreos are the cookies, Orioles are birds.
My Son: No, it's a penguin. Can I have an Oreo? I'm hungry.
Me: Ugh!

Last night he played and I coached his first teeball game.  He seemed to enjoy it much more than I expected after our practice a couple of weekends ago when he broke down because I was giving my attention to other children.  When we pulled into the parking lot, he exploded out of the car in a ball of excitement which was a great way to start the evening.  Of course, he did not miss the playground adjacent to the field and as soon as he spotted it he was clamoring to play – it’s not like he hadn’t played for two hours this morning at another playground with a friend of his.  But that’s my son, he sees a playground and everything else flies out the window of his attention.  Waiting at the field was one other boy from the team so I called him and my son over to warm up. I tossed them some grounders to practice fielding and reminded them with each throw to throw over hand since underhand seemed the more natural motion for the both of them.  “Over, over, high, high,” I prompted as they pulled the ball back getting ready to release.  The other boy’s grandmother kept screaming at him not to throw the ball so hard.  It took a great deal of restraint for me to keep back the words I wanted to say.  Really, what person tries to discourage their kid from throwing a baseball hard?  No one ever got anywhere in baseball throwing a ball gently. The fact that my son was cooperating and having fun helped keep my lips closed and my mind somewhat distracted from the grandmother. A few minutes before the game started, I finally met the man assigned to be my assistant coach.  Several minutes after that, he informed me that his job keeps him busy on assignments overseas so he would probably miss more games than he’d make.  Great!  Just my luck. I have a wonderfully long history of people bailing after promising or volunteering to help me. 

Our team was up first, and to ensure that my son did not have a breakdown in the first thirty seconds of the game, I did have him bat first. One advantage to being the coach is I can decide where my kid plays. He could not wait to swing, so I held off putting the ball on the tee until I had helped him adjust his feet and hands.  As soon as the ball was down he swung.  The bat made contact, the ball drifted to the grass and he was off to first base.  Instead of stopping, he kept going to second.  And then when I told him to stop he started going back to first.  Eventually, I got him to go back to second.  After the next boy hit the ball, my son, after a moment of confusion, started to run to third, but he paused in mid stride to wave hello to his mother. When he finally came home and crossed the plate he was smiling. 

Out on the field things were a bit different.  He had absolutely no interest in playing defense.  He did, however, enjoy playing with the dirt and kept trying to shape it into little hills around where he stood.  He also did a bit of dancing, raising his arms above his head and shaking his body.  He kind of reminded me a bit of his uncle who is a much better dancer than ball player.  Periodically, he would run over to me and beg, “Can I play on the playground?  Please can I play?”  And I’d have to gently guide him back to whichever position he was playing, “Let’s discuss it later.”  But his mind was on everything he could climb instead of the boy at bat. One ball was hit directly at him and that ball he managed to get in front of and pick up.  I screamed – as I did after every hit – “Throw to first, throw to first.”  My son started run holding the ball and when he finally got the ball out of his hand his form would have been much more appropriate for throwing a javelin, but hey, the ball got to first – long after the runner arrived.  On other occasions, when the ball was hit passed him, he would turn and chase it like most the kids on the team, but instead of sprinting after it his run would morph into a sort of half skip half gallop. 

            Despite the mass chaos of seven kids running around aimless and confused for an hour, I will admit the game turned out much better than I feared it would.  My son wore a smile most of the game, he got excited every time he got to bat and he had fun digging in the field.  Bottom line – he had fun.  Since that’s what the teeball is supposed to be about, I suppose it was a success – for now.  And yes, when the game was over, he did get to play in the playground.