Little League and the Girl

He's not that tall. He's not very strong. Reed thin or chubby. Every thing he is – he doesn't know yet. But for some small minutes – he walks with kings and and pulls their garters – giggling all the way. He loves games all day free of care. Simple ones with dirt and sunshine. And - the girl he really loves is back where he lives and cares deeply for him. She is the woman in his life. There is no other for him. All is not so perfect though, he will fight this woman of his. Endless complaints of his habits. Strife over careless strewn garments can ignite fits of parliamentary debates across their home.This lover of his competes for his time, demands his obedience, and wants his heartbeats tocall her own. She has one goal....a strong man. Every waking thought she has is towards this building of a man. Strength as she would define it. As a Kind man. As she would define it. So with this wisdom she understands his games must be played. Out where dirt and sweat feeds hunger, with no little admiration for his appetite. She feeds him to grow ever stronger. Games in sunshine. Bronzing him as gods of old. He has freckles and a smile to melt the arctic heart. Skin still soft and free of whiskers. Soft muscles and strong mind for his fun and games. Somewhere the woman knows how this play must be given rein. In their playing he'll learn what she knows he must. Hurt will find him and she'll be there to comfort. A man she can love will have some scars and poured some tears. This man will know how to feel. Days of joy these are, as the young one grows into his gangly bones. Each season a reckoning of size and strength. Each season a love song deeper for this one true woman of his. His strivings a supplication to the one queen . There is no other girl he must impress so. His sweat and toil for her eyes. Her smile puffs his chest. Wherever he may stand on his field of dreams a compass points to her true north. Desperate for her approval and acknowledgment of his deeds. Knights of old in their battles not as eager to please. “Mom!!! Hurry UP!! - A-ROD 'S coming up! .........”A pole who?” “Bases loaded with a full count.......OOOOOOHHHH....You guys are so gonna get SLAMMMMMEEEEDDDD HERRRERERERE...!!!.....” At first she pretends to understand the rules and rituals of his contests. Yet she'd never reveal her ignorance. To encourage she must feign enthusiasm and understanding. In time though enlightenment comes and her deep love gives her the eye she will need to steer his course straight. Now a true appreciation for his efforts gives her a new source of love to feed him. With this nurture his pride grows stronger and confidence soars. A mother and her son. She drives him to t-ball practice and games. Sits on splintered bleachers and watches as her baby boy tests his limbs as a young colt might do – dashing around a paddock on shaky legs. Not all limbs moving in sync yet, athletic grace comes with much running and playing and time. Adoring the view of him in his helmet – a pumpkin of blue or green or yellow perched on his shoulders with his face beaming at her. Handling a baseball bat whose length near matches his height. After a frenzied day it is pleasure to sit out on a spring evening gliding towards dusk. Time for the pressures of the day to deflate and float away. Dads and Uncles and Brothers in charge for the moment. Teaching the skills to their young charges. A leisurely pace allowing for motherly discussions on raising their broods. Watchful eye cocked at all times lest he cast that inquisitive “is mom watching me?” look her way. On the drive home a rehash of all his plays and estimations of effort. Perhaps a stop for ice cream – his cleats clacking on concrete and tile, his dirt smudged and sweat streaked face scanning a neon menu. Soon home to bath and bed. A scene played out all across America (and an ever greater part of the globe). For some lucky ones out of thousands a trip to a small Pennsylvania town beckons. From all 50 states the best of these teams of “Little League Baseball” players descend on Williamsport for a “World Series” - one that is indeed global. With one major distinction – all others than the U.S.A. will compete in a tournament amongst themselves to meet the winners of the American team's tournament – best of the U.S. against the champions of the rest of the world. For this competition - to win the U.S.A title will be considered the great goal. To advance and overcome consistently excellent teams from Asia and Latin America may be seen as icing on a delicious cake. Sweet indeed. Arriving here entails a great deal of luck as well as skill. Balls bounce oddly on less than perfectly manicured fields of small town America. Every step aided by the community and neighborhoods. Bake sales and car washing to fund trips to ever distant advancing tournaments. Excitement building across the lengthened days of summer. Disrupting family vacation plans and other pursuits. This lightning strikes but one year in the lives of these youngsters. What a glory it must be for 12 year old boys to arrive knowing they'll end up playing to a national audience. Stepping to the plate, hitching their sleeves in imitation of major league heroes. Knocking dirt from cleats with bats in effected nonchalance. Our national past time in miniature. A stadium built for the purpose with dimensions suited to their stature and strength. Shorter distances – yet bleachers to accommodate the spectacle. Small town gazettes with front page features on the local boys made good. Interviews with national network sportscasters – left near mute by this sudden brush with the narrators they've known from the great star maker machinery. “Mom ! I was talking to Brent Musberger!!” Cameras waiting at every turn. Reporters with microphones everywhere. Now they can know how A-Rod , Manny and Big Papi feel. After marathon drives from the small corners of America or international flights across oceans – to sleep in motels and campers. Retinues of family and friends from the proud Hometown following in a caravan of support for the boys of summer. Baseball as rite of passage, played for the sport and joy of it. As pure as sports can be. Mini vans stocked with coolers and cousins, blankets and sleeping bags. Summer nights in the Pocono woods. Home made banners and painted faces. Each team with it’s own rooting section. There are other girls along – grandmas and aunts, sisters and cousins. They too will shape the young man along his way. Here to cheer or console. Still it is mom the cameras will find in it’s ceaseless search for the freeze frame of emotion. Television – the insatiable hunger. A constant search for new narratives of our national myth. No details too small to escape scrutiny. What will be the next act in this grand play? In a nation too young to have reverence for the wisdom of elders and a red-hot cultural jambalaya – our childhood is still the great collective memory. America is the headstrong , vigorous adolescent of the world. Given to impetuous and perhaps fool hardy rushes into adventures with no thought of the ends. Youngsters at games of the world. And so we are still enthralled with youth and strength. In absence of ancient fairy tales – ours are being written and acted out in front of us and more significant - the GREAT EYE in the sky. The ‘Babe’ , that man-child who came roaring out on stage in a riotous decade , raw talent and massive appetite a mirror to the nation. Loving the boy of our game like no other. First media superstar – playing the boys game, a Baltimore orphan writing a menu of hot dogs and beer for summer afternoons. Down through the decades – and now our little men of the pastoral game there to remind us of our reverence for the biggest boy of them all. Modern TV graphics scrolling beneath extolling the favorite movie - “Harry Potter”, favorite food - “chicken tenders” , hobby – “sleeping until noon”. Celebrity culture for the internet age – thrust upon the sons of John Q. Public. Sons who give us inspiration and hope. Confirming for us our teachings. During this week of natural drama all the foibles and triumphs of the human experience will be shown to us through the eyes of our children. How they react is a validation. There for all to see will bejoy and heartbreak, laughter and tears, finesse and fumbling. More often than not we’ll marvel at the heart, skill and maturity of our young ones. Arriving here required devotion and dedication from all. Judges high up in the media chairs will remark on such a high level of play and mastery of nuance. Yet the one true beauty of it all is what can be seen on these young faces. No stoic adult countenance with a lid over boiling and surging feeling. 12 Year olds cannot hide what nervous strings are singing every minute of competition. Baseball’s drama springs from the absence of time – there is no clock. Each year a new story is told under Pennsylvania skies. Underdogs and long shots – America’s favorite Bed-time fable told every summer. There will be game ending catches, walk off home runs and courage over pain. Fair play and teamwork. Focus and drive. Facsimile of their major league heroes printed small. Our little men show us how to play with love. Grand is a green lawn and glove leather and Mom watching me play. Golden days indeed. Fair mother how honored are thee. Cheering for your little man. All that you give him shows polish fit for another woman. A circle unbroken.