At about 1:30 this afternoon, the fluid in the thermometer was about as high as the sun was in the sky. I ventured out of the cool house into the blast furnace heat to get into an even hotter vehicle. I drove over to the high school to watch my son, Chris, play in a baseball tournament. Shade was at a premium when I met up with my wife and daughter. My 13 year old daughter, Sarah didn’t want to sit in the shade. I think it had something to do with the social perception of a 13 year old female surrounded by older male teens in uniforms.
We were in for the duration. This was a double header for Chirs’ team, so we eventually did seek the refuge of shade after Sarah decided to go home to enjoy the benefits of central air conditioning. We actually sighed a breath of relief that comfort won out over hormones.
As my wife, Ruth and I sat in the shade, sipping ice tea, we watched the kids out there in the afternoon sun, enjoying the game so much. I think they could have shut off the scoreboard. This group of kids is just intent on playing ball. They have endured a tough season this year. There are more zeros in the win column than there are mosquitoes around my back yard at sundown. It doesn’t really seem to matter though. The kids just want to play ball. During the lull in the action, they talk about swings, pitches and stealing bases. If you watch them closely, you can tell they imitate their favorite major league player as they approach the plate to bat, how they lead off the bases and the intense look of longing for making that big play that will generate ooos and ahs from the crowd.
I’ve been to enough athletic events in my six years in Northfield to have a keen appreciation for Northfield parents and team coaches. They are friendly but more importantly; they come to cheer their kids on no matter what the score is and no matter how many errors show up on the scoreboard. Last Thursday, as we sat and watched Chris play his last regular season home game, for whatever reason, I remembered a TV announcer’s call during the innings of televised major league games from the early 1960’s “No runs, no hits, and nobody left on base.”
Snapped back to reality, as we sat there in the shade, watching those kids on a baseball diamond hot enough to cook a pot roast, I noticed the mist of humidity escaping into the air almost creating a haze in the distance. I thought to myself that we are fortunate to be someplace where something so simple as watching kids play baseball on a Saturday afternoon can still exist. Someplace where kids can be kids and there are adults to encourage their dreams. Not everyone in the world is this fortunate.
The recent terrorist acts in London were a grim reminder of the evil that lurks out there. What the terrorists don’t get; however, is the drive to just be a community. Around this country in every community on every field, the ritual of kids being kids was carried on, just as it’s been for over 100 years. As long as there are kids with dreams, and adults to cheer them on, I think we are going to make it.
Play Ball!!