Little League: The last games

I was a reluctant Little League mom.

My niche was always dance, not sports, so I understood ferrying my kids to theater and dance classes. Teams were foreign territory.

When my son wanted to play baseball, I figured it could be great, teach about team spirit, and get exercise outside; the usual benefits. But I was hesitant.

Naturally, I had heard all the stories of crazed parents berating kids, fighting with other parents. And, I was worried. I doubted I would restrain myself if someone attacked him for dropping a ball.

The pros outweighed the cons, and off we went to buy cleats. Soon, it was clear; it’s a great outlet, as anyone with young sons knows, they often have more energy than sense.

Practice started when the ground in the northeast is still frozen. I huddled in a down jacket, watching them first run the wrong way. It was so cold that their ears, sticking out from their caps, chapped red.

Eventually, they learned to run the right way. Some hit homers out of the park. In between several springs passed. The ground, which started frozen, turned to mud, and eventually to grass each season and each season the team improved.

First just mommies, daddies and grandparents milled about. This last season, girlfriends cheered them on.

Once during a practice the first year, the boys had stopped and were huddled in a corner of a park. Their ever-patient coach called, “Hey guys! What’s going on?” As one, they said, “Bunny!” A rabbit had hopped by.

Though this league is made up of kids from one town, it’s a spread-out suburb so my son made friends from different schools. Little League took him from third through sixth grade and gave him what I hope is a lifelong passion for the game.

He loves baseball with a zeal I hope he applies to other aspects of life. And he can talk baseball with others who know the lineup of the 1927 Yankees.

I never expected to feel much about it, but I can’t shake the sadness that set in last week. His Little League career ended – not with a grand slam or a tiebreaker. He and a bunch of his buddies aged out. The season was over.

During a family day picnic, the coach called up each kid and cited his accomplishments. Mine was noted for an amazing catch this year (it really was) and for being the “hardest working” on his team, first to practice, last to leave.

I felt myself misting up. I’d miss those early practices when a scarf and gloves were required and the later games when sunscreen and shades were. I’d miss cheering for his team, often the underdog, and marveling at the resiliency of my son who loved the game even when his team lost 21-0.

Mostly, I’ll miss just observing the easy camaraderie among the team, gear bags slung over narrow shoulders, standing in line to drown their loss, or occasionally celebrate a win, with blue Slushies.

There’s senior league to look forward to, and I’m delighted he wants to play, but I can’t help feeling melancholy that Little League days are over.