Take me out to the T-ball game

The boy in the batter's box swings and misses, swings again and falls over, swings again and finally hits a slow dribbler into the infield, where three little boys pounce on the ball and wrestle over it until one emerges triumphant with the ball in his mitt but neglects to throw it to first base.

We are at T-ball practice and I am in awe of the patience of the coaches, who have their hands full trying to urge nine little boys to keep their eyes on the ball, their helmets on their heads, their bats off their shoulders, and their feet on the field. The boys demonstrate varying levels of talent, from the kid who wields the bat as if it were a sledge-hammer but runs like the wind to the one who catches the ball reliably but then throws it straight up into the air as if the Man in the Moon were playing first base.

Even the best players sometimes get distracted. Who can track an approaching baseball when so many cool dandelions demand attention? Why run to first base when you'd rather run to Mommy in the stands? We all know there's no crying in baseball, but T-ball is to baseball as the lightning bug is to the lightning. Crying happens. So does fighting, and burping, and dancing.

My grandson hits the ball pretty well but gets extra style points for the waggle-dance he does in the batter's box. His competitive streak comes out when he runs the bases: he wants to run faster than anyone else, but in a game he won't be allowed to pass other runners on the basepath, even if they're slow or running backward or hopping like a frog.

Of course there's no guarantee that there will be other runners. Getting on base is not, apparently, every player's highest priority. One little boy hits the ball and then immediately runs out to retrieve it himself, which, in a game, would be a pretty effective method of tagging himself out. Another hits the ball, drops the bat (an important step many neglect), and runs straight to third base. 

Parents in the stands sit stoically or call out encouragement ("Keep your eyes on the ball!") or, occasionally, laugh. I suppose there are T-ball parents who forget that these are small children practicing a game where the stakes are pretty low--I mean, nobody's going to be scarred for life because he tripped over his own feet at T-ball practice, unless a demanding parent makes a huge deal out of it and can't let it go. At some point every player on the field is bound to do something ridiculously childlike, which is appropriate since they are, in fact, children. They deserve a round of applause just for showing up and providing the rest of us so much free entertainment, laughter, and joy.