Spring Baseball

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On this first day of spring, I am standing outside watching two elementary school teams play baseball.  It’s freezing, grey skies threatening to break open pouring down buckets of what will surely be cold rain.  In the baseball field before me boys aged eight through twelve battle each other with skill and strategy.  Proud parents stand around in what I can only describe as a combination of holding vigil and controlled cheering.  Every inning brought on new questions and insights.  Today I’m an observer of an entirely new phenomenon:  baseball.

How is baseball a new phenomenon?  I’ve grown up playing it, I’ve gone to games, I have my opinions on which team I’m loyal to.  Today’s baseball game was, simply put, different.  What I have to say about these two hours would make for an interesting thesis, my cultural observation radar picking up signals from all directions. 

First, I notice the difference in the coaches.  The one shouting instructions to the team I’m here to cheer on and watch is a friend.  His voice carries in the plastic megaphone, and I hear almost a gruffness in his voice.  It’s not that he’s angry.  It’s more that he’s being, I suppose, commanding.  Like a father you dare not disobey, the boys take every command with a hearty “Yes!” as if they’re honored to be spoken to.  The coach for the other team is almost kind, contrasting the two styles in a way that surely no one will miss.  He compliments the boys, cheering them on, encouraging, throwing in a suggestion here and there.  My friend does not compliment.  Neither does he out right scold, but he is not at the moment exuding “nice.”

I ponder this.  On one hand, even those who are not parents should be able to see the benefit of encouraging children.  We thrive with encouragement.  The difference between a kiss on the forehead followed by a “good job” and “the look”, silently admonishing while forewarning what might happen with mouthing back—these personify child psychology 101.  Kids simply do well, better when encouraged.  I wonder why my friend, the coach on our team isn’t fuzzier with his warmth.

But, I get it.  Once these boys reach middle and high school, there will be no warmth from their coaches.  I assume my friend is slowly working towards thickening the boys’ skin, especially the older ones, so once they hit the rigid hierarchy of the real world they will be prepared.  I see the coach’s point.  The mother instinct in me kicks in right away, and I want to say, “Let them be boys as long as they can.  They’re just kids.”  The truth lies somewhere in the middle but this is not my call to make.

Then there’s the difference in the make up of those of us “in the stands.”  Support for “their” team is comprised of mothers.   Only mothers.  I see no dads watching this game today, even though it’s a national holiday.  Our team has more dads than moms.  This fascinates me.  All of the dads are out on the sidewalk chain-smoking, sure not to be on school property lest they defy the sacred baseball field.  They’re standing or squatting off school property, their cigarette smoking sometimes blowing towards us, and at other times away from us.  The women are inside the green mesh wall separating the field from the sidewalk.  We’re careful not to be too loud, but clap with every strike, hit, and run scored by our team.  We cluck quietly with every walk offered by our pitcher, every successful base stolen by our competition all the while making sure the boys don’t hear us.  The dads on the other hand, all baseball players themselves, call out to their boys.  At one point a dad behind me warns the third baseman (base boy?), “He’s about to steal!” when the boy on second base is about to make a run for it.  Their voices half-scolding, “Come on!” and half-complimenting, “Nice catch!” are silent only when the other team does something well. 

The mothers on our side all shivering with hands in pockets wonder together what happened to yesterday’s sunshine and warm breeze.  Soon we see two dads bring out long canvas bags.  I know what these are.  We’re about to get wind protection.  I’m secretly thrilled.  Any barrier from the cold will be a welcome relief.

Four of the dads erect an open-air hut—a gazebo without walls—but then I see each dad take a long leg-pole holding up this canopy and walk towards the head coach and the team.  The dads look as if they’re carrying Cleopatra herself as they march over placing the protective cover over the men and boys.  No relief for us, evidently.  We’re only the moms.

I mention this only to say the coaches on the opposing team are out in the open, standing on the sidelines with a constant stream of comments to the players.  The mothers, however, are standing under a similar canopy-concoction.  Protect your women, right?  Of course our dads will value the comfort of the coaches over that of the cheering mothers, myself included. We’re all here for the teams, coaches and players alike.  You’re cold?  That’s your fault.  Or so I imagine the dads’ reason collectively.  

The boys themselves out in the field seem to be calling out something to each batter in the box.  I can’t make out their words.  I can’t even tell if I don’t get what they’re saying because:  1). this is “baseball talk” which I don't speak, or 2). this is yet another version of the local dialect, or 3). between those whose voices have changed and others with higher ones there’s an octave difference making it difficult to hear.  Certainly it can’t be me who doesn’t get it.  Of course not.  I assume it’s something similar to what I’ve heard American baseball players say, their “Hey batter batter batter” which in hindsight actually sounded more like, “Heeeeey, batabatabata.”  I ask one of the dads later and he confirms I’m close. 

“The boys are saying, ‘Hey batter, hit it to me.’”

“Is it a taunt?” I ask.

“No, it’s not that.  Maybe a distraction.  When you hear that from seven different directions it can be a lot of noise to block out.  There are some teams where the boys will say, ‘Hey batter, I’ll bet you can’t hit it to me.’  The coaches are supposed to stop that, though.”

The other team didn’t call out the same phrase.  Theirs stopped at “Hey” but here the chorus of “Hey”s coming from every which direction at complete random intervals was distracting, even for me. 

I could write much more about this day, but I’ll leave you here, buzzing still with the calls of the boys, coaches, and dads ringing in my ears.