Play Ball!

This essay is now ten years old. I still remember, and feel so keenly, my gratitude to great coaches.

My son played baseball for a few more years, then tried karate, which he loved and studied for 5 1/2 years with a wonerful instructor. Then, he found fencng, and he's now in his sixth year of fencing with another amazing coach. Each coach has helped us all learn the lessons that athletics are supposed to teach.

As a parent, I've watched my kid learn things about himself, and I've watched him develop lifetime interests.

That, too, is a win.

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My son's first word was "ball." He loved any kind of ball – in fact, he loved anything that resembled a ball. He was adept at spotting them anywhere we went, whether it was a beach ball or a golf ball. Even in books, he would often identify drawings and paintings of round objects, like the moon or a plate, as, "ball!"

We knew this might signal a change in our family. Neither myself nor my siblings had played organized sports. My oldest sister had run track for a while. My husband had been on his high school wrestling team, but he'd never been a jock. His sisters sang and danced, but they didn't play ball. Our daughters had been in gymnastics classes, dance classes and one year, cheerleading classes, but they'd never played on a team. As flexible and movement oriented as Terry, my second born, is, she never competed in gymnastics. That was partly her choice. She's so hyper-competitive that if she can't be guaranteed to win all the time, she doesn't want to play. Part of that was our choice, because we wanted her to be shielded from coaches, kids and judges who would obsess about her weight and shape. Ball games? Neither girl was interested.

My dad, of course, had been a "four letter man" in high school, back when there were only four sports available to high schoolers. It caused him deep despair that he raised four kids, and there wasn't a jock among us.

We don't even watch televised sports. We don't have a favorite team. I don't even know when the seasons start and end. Since I was born in January and the Super Bowl has fallen on my birthday before, I know it's played in January. Still, my husband won't even know who's playing in the World Series or the Super Bowl unless the guys at work tell him.

And now I had a ball obsessed son. I bought him balls, but we never played anything more than catch with him. Even catch mostly meant rolling the balls back and forth, because at one and two he couldn't catch them in the air very accurately.

I knew that if my son wanted to play ball, I wanted him to play. I'm still uneasy with the thought of football, but luckily he's shown no interest. I also knew that there were leagues for kids as young as four, and probably even younger. I never signed him up, because I wanted him to be old enough to understand what playing on a team meant, complete with practices and losing. Besides, we never push our little ones. No French lessons at two and violin at three, thank you very much.

When he was four or five, I took a part time job in a friend's office. I played on the office softball team because my friends did, and because it was a way to support the company and my coworkers. Some of us had been or currently were athletes, but most of us had no real talent. I played in the city league and during Corporate Challenge, and I still don't understand all the rules. Still, I had fun, and my family came to watch me.

Then, in kindergarten, Alex brought home a flyer for Little League. I asked him if he wanted to play, and explained that it was like my office softball team. His eyes lit up. "Yeah!"

We signed him up, bought equipment, and hoped we wouldn't get a gung ho coach who thought the kids should be considering their college scholarship potential at six.

He played T-ball, and loved it. We liked his coach. It was obvious that a lot of the other kids played as frequently as we read, and we never picked up a ball except for team practices. Still, Alex didn't mind, the coach didn't mind, and the other kids didn't mind. Most of them were still struggling to learn to tie their own shoes.

Nobody keeps score in T-ball, but Alex constantly speculated about whether they won or lost, and what place they held relative to the other teams. He was thrilled to get a trophy at the end of the year, and mildly miffed that there were no team rankings.

This year he played farm league ball. They had to hit pitches instead of hitting off a T. We worried again about what kind of coaches he'd have, but we were very happy with them. He had four coaches. They all had very high expectations, but they also tailored expectations to the individual player and their abilities. If it was all you could do to catch the ball, by golly when you caught it they cheered. They expected YOUR best, not your teammates' best. They also made it clear that there would be NO teasing, grandstanding, complaining, or ANY negative behavior. Your teammates were to be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy at all times, as were your opponents, officials and fans. The boys thrived, and functioned with a real sense of teamwork. Every positive move was quickly and amply praised, and every failure was met with, "Good try." I was amazed by the maturity and positive attitude they displayed.

Yesterday, I watched my son and his team take home second place trophies in the league tournament. I was literally moved to tears during the final game by the way they treated each other, the way they supported each other, and the way they gave their very best for their team. When they lost, by a heartbreaking one run, there were no complaints, finger pointing or tantrums. They congratulated each other and they congratulated the other team. They behaved the way their coaches had taught them. Their coaches praised the way they'd played. They told the kids how proud they were of them.


Only two teams out of the entire league had made it through the tournament to the final game. Even if they'd lost every game all season, we would have been proud. I knew they were being taught to be sportsmen in the best sense of the word. But when those kids were called onto the field to receive their trophies, family members who were already hoarse from cheering cheered their loudest. Afterward at the pizza parlor, one parent said, "They won tonight." Yes, they did.

My son may never win a league championship. He may never make it to the finals again. Or, he may end up with a roomful of trophies, and one day play in the major leagues. I don't know. But I know that his sense of being part of a team, working for the good of the team, being rewarded for your efforts and accepting defeat gracefully are priceless. Absolutely priceless. If that's what my son gets out of baseball, I will drive him to practices and sit in the heat or the cold more than willingly. If he wants to play soccer, or golf, or basketball, or anything else, I will be just as happy. (But I do silently pray, please, no football. He'll get broken.)

Right now, he's only seven years old, and my son got to be a champion, on a team full of champions.