Handsome Boy plays T-Ball. So, two (and sometimes three) days a week, we load the trunk with folding Penn State chairs, water bottles, a Steelers bat, a pint-sized ball glove, and set off for the t-ball fields. We sit. We watch. We cheer. We swat bugs. Each game is pretty much like the one before.
Until last night.
Last night, somewhere amid the sitting and the bug-swatting and the game-watching and the cheering, I unexpectedly learned something from these small-type ball players...
After dropping off the Boy at his dugout, Lovely Girl and I set up our chairs and settled in to watch my little man do his stuff. I squinted through the bright sun at Handsome Boy out in the field as he examined dirt, made grass angels in the outfield, watched several batted balls roll right past him, yukked it up with his cap pulled completely over his face, and played pretend-catch with another outfielder. I cringed as he played tag and climbed the fence in the dugout. In fact, I spent the whole first inning trying to get his attention from the sidelines, sending desperate hand-signals to get him to get in the game before he got a t-ball upside the head (like last game).
Then, somewhere in the middle of my worries about Handsome Boy receiving his next bonk on the head, I stopped obsessing about my youngest child and took a look around at his teammates. Several little guys preferred to have a seat in the dirt as they waited for the batter to connect with the ball. A few ran in little circles in their assigned spots. Still others deposited unknown treasures from the ground into their pockets. There were some wrestlers in the outfield. A couple teammates intently searched the outfield grass for interesting critters to scrutinize. And they all played tag and climbed the fence in the dugout.
Then I started to just relax and watch the game. When the other team hit a grounder to center field, our center fielder's frustrated dad pleaded with his daughter to put down the lovely butterfly she'd just found, and go get the ball. In the next inning, while our batter was still swinging, their first baseman ran gleefully to the sidelines, clutching something thin and gray in his little fist. "Mommy! I found a feather for you!" A while later, Butterfly Girl waved her newest find at her dad as he once again begged her to put down the pretty butterfly and pick up the ball that had just rolled past her.
In between, there were some great plays: a couple of awesome hits to the outfield, a few pop-flies, some great plays at first base, and some exciting chase scenes as our right-fielder barreled toward home plate to tag a runner out.
But the best moment of all was right near the end of the game. Our team was fielding. The other team smacked a sky-high pop-fly right toward center field. But this time, Butterfly Girl was ready. She caught that ball in the air, then looked with amazement first at her glove, then at her coach - who ran over to give her a double high-five, then over at her dad. Then her grin stretched a mile wide as she took in the whistles, claps and cheers from both sides - coaches and parents alike - all for her fantastic catch.
At the end of the game, there were giant smiles on every kid's face. Nobody noticed how many outs there were, or how many runs were scored. Nobody argued about who collected pebbles in the infield, and who paid attention the whole time. Everybody thought their team had won, and every kid out there had a great time.
A few grass angels left in the outfield, and a few butterflies caught, and a few birds missing a feather or two is all part of the fun, I realized...
...and I'm so glad I didn't miss it.
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