Baby Diamondbacks

by

Gerry Niskern

        After the long player’s strike a couple of years ago, a rumor was going around that baseball was finished as this country’s national sport. Wrong. Look around you.  Ball diamonds are full of little munchkins and even more important, their dads.

        In one PeeWee league this year, all the six-year-olds voted on a name for their team.  Unanimously, they chose the Diamondbacks.  Guess what?   Every other team in the league called themselves the Diamondbacks too. No Problem.    Each team was provided with different colored team shirts and they were known as the blue Diamondbacks, red Diamondbacks, etc. 

        The dads presented a different problem.

        #8’s dad arrived with his son and a bag full of equipment.  Dad was serious about the game.  By that, I mean obsessed.  The boy had three kinds of bats, a fielders and a catchers mitt, and his own custom made batting helmet.

        #5’s dad also believe in coming well prepared.  His son sported the latest in baseball pants, socks, shoes with cleats and black charcoal stripes under his eyes.  Everyone was kind enough not to point out that there’s no glare from lights at 5 o’clock in the afternoon.

        The families slowly gathered to watch as the warm up continued on the field. Dads in plaster covered jeans and work boots. One with long hair, sandals and an erring.  A father in a suit and tie with the glassy eyed look of someone who had just fought the cross-town rush hour traffic.  An older grey haired man came late.  The mother, sweaty and tired, could leave now.  She had already cheered for their five-year-olds’ tee ball game at another park and then drove this Diamondback to his Peewee game.  She scooped up the baby sister whose cries were reaching a decimal level not meant for human ears and ran for the car.

        The blue Diamondbacks were up first.  The Orange team took the field. The theory in this easygoing baseball league is spread’em out and maybe the ball will stop when it hits one of them!

        # 2 was the batter up for the opening pitch.  He swings late.  Strike one.   Again, strike two.  Suddenly there was a sharp crack and he drove the ball a whole ten feet out and then, just stood there on home plate.

        “Go to first base! His dad shouted.

        The baby Diamondback looked to the right and then to the left and started for third.

        “No. Run to first base” his dad pleaded.

        He took a step towards first, hesitated and turned towards third again. Finally, he changed direction and his short legs carried him to first base.

        “Out!” the umpire yelled.

        His daddy, coaching behind the bench, was torn between praising him for a good effort, or pretending he didn’t know the kid.

        #2’s teammates were supposed to be sitting on the bench waiting for a turn at bat, and hopefully watching the game.  Male voices from the bleachers could be heard pleading, “Sit down and pay attention to the game, son” as their respective offspring climbed the chain link fence, store each others caps and occasionally fell backwards off the bench.

        Mr. Baseball, #8, with his special batting helmet, was up next.  He strode to home plate, tapped first one shoe and then the other with his bat and touched it to home plate once or twice.  Surely, a home run was on the way.  1…2…3…4…5…6…strikes and he was out.  Image is not everything!  At that point, the blue team gathered around the coach before taking the field for the first time. According to the current thinking in these beginners’ teams, every boy plays a different position each inning.  This way, they learn each position quickly, or putting it another way, become hopelessly confused.

        The coach called out, “ #2, right field”. The six-year-old didn’t have a clue.

        “Go stand behind the man in the red shirt,” his daddy yelled, meaning one of the umpires in right field.  While # 2 was getting his clove, the umpire in the red shirt moved off the field and up the hill for a drink of water. #2 trotted over and dutifully stood behind him.  By this time, his father had his head in his hands and was talking to himself.

        Player # 5, with the black stripes under his eyes, was assigned to the pitcher’s mound.  In this young league, one of the coaches actually pitches to the batter.  The boy playing pitchers position is supposed to catch the ball when he can a throw to the appropriate position. After the first rolled slowly past him, it was apparent to anyone who knows the game that this young man at least needed a large wad of bubble gum in his cheek to give him the image of a pitcher.

        In the meantime, the two left fielders were playing with an anthill.  The kid in center field was lying on his back watching an airliner.

        In the last inning, #2 was up again.   This time he sent a sizzling ball all the way to the short stop, who dropped it. This time, the batter ran in the right direction to first and on to second.  Wait! Something was wrong.  He couldn’t get on second base. The second baseman stood squarely in the middle of the bag and wouldn’t budge. After a few rules were explained to him, the game continued.

        Soon #2 went on to third and then was hit home. His eyes widened in surprise and a grin spread across his face when he realized that all those people were clapping and cheering for him!

        “Hey, dad,” he shouted.  “It’s l3-5.  We won!”

        With cheers of two, four six eight, who do we appreciate? Filling the air, the crowd started to leave.

        The dads were grinning. The tension was whisked away like the dust by the umpires’ broom on home plate.  Their boys had finally played their first baseball game.

        After all, it’s not about winning or losing. It’s sharing the dream and the spirit of the game. Tonight the dads had passed on an important tradition.

        In years to come, their sons would always have the excuse, “I can’t cut the grass today, honey. The game is on”