The adults are the first to arrive. From the back of their SUVs they carry to the field two batting nets and a spring-loaded pitching machine. With a line-striping cart, they lay down baselines and batter’s boxes. They pound into the ground long staples to anchor the white bases. Large buckets of new balls are set in the grass, and colored plastic cones define the space for throwing and catching drills.
The players start to arrive. This particular group is girls in the age range of seven to nine, but on other days the groups are older girls, or boys, and in earlier months it was soccer instead of baseball. The teams began appearing as the worst of the pandemic waned. Though short games are sometimes played, the emphasis is on instruction, drilling, and practice.
I am in the park because that’s where I bring my dog every afternoon. I sling my dog’s ball across the meadow, and as a senior dog, she’s happy to retrieve it once or twice and then lie in the grass looking regal. She’s a German Shepherd. Sometimes the players, in a display of courtesy and caution, ask if it’s okay to pet her. I tell them they may.
To begin, the young players are led in stretching and warmup exercises. They are regularly sent to their water bottles. They wear bright uniforms and baseball caps. When they practice hitting, they wear helmets and batting gloves. The scene looks like major league spring training for Munchkins.
When the younger group plays innings, they get a chance to hit balls thrown by the pitching machine, and after three misses, the ball is placed on a tee at home plate and they have three chances to hit it. It’s rare that a kid misses three, but if it happens, the coaches yell, “Good job.” Meaning, I suppose, good try.
An adult serves as umpire, and the teams have more than one coach. Parents watch from the sidelines. Some have brought folding chairs. Each team has a cheer they chant in unison. Though the kids seem dutiful, their numbers dwindle as the weeks pass.
I was a baseball lover as a boy, so watching these activities brings back a flood of memories.
It was the fifties then, and we lived in a neighborhood of young baby boomers. From cold windy days in March, through the hot, humid summer, and into the crisp days of autumn, baseball games were a daily event, either in the empty lot at the end of the block or in the street. Kids brought their bats, including a few cracked ones wound tightly with tape. To avoid broken windows, we used a rubber ball in the street but a hard ball in the empty lot. Through a complex process of seniority, popularity, and bravado, two captains emerged, and they chose up sides. One girl always announced that she would pitch, and so she did. You knew how good you were by the order in which you were chosen. No one cared about our self-esteem.
Any instruction came from our peers. Watch the ball and choke up on the bat were common bits of advice. At least half of us had gloves, and we when the fielding team went in to bat, players tossed their gloves to those who needed them. Bases were squares of faded cardboard. The ages and genders were mixed. When a little kid batted, the fielders moved in. With a bigger kid at the plate, fielders moved back. On the bases, runners were called safe or out by arguing. All injuries — from skinned knees to stoved fingers to fat lips — elicited the same medical advice: shake it off! After the game we went home tired and thirsty. There was never an adult in sight.
When the boys turned nine, we signed up for Knothole League, a Little League counterpart in our region. Because we boomers were so numerous, three games went on at once, one on the regulation diamond and two beyond the outfield fence in fields that had been mowed for baseball. One man, the high-school coach, oversaw all three games. Balls were precious, so when a pop foul disappeared, we stomped the weeds until it was found. There were no uniforms. We decided positions and batting order on our own. We heckled the batter, jeered when errors were made. We learned to give “micro-aggressions” and we learned to take them. An older boy served as umpire. Our higher status as Knothole Leaguers did not prevent our still playing neighborhood ball after dinner.
I am not going to use this sharp contrast to slide into the older person’s typical lament of how-much-harder-we-had-it-at-your-age. Besides, the fifties lacked more than water bottles. Kids who really needed help sometimes had nowhere to turn. And I am not going to pass negative judgements on the scene that unfolds now at the park. For their efforts, the adults deserve only admiration. If I had a young daughter or son, I might well sign them up.
Like everyone, I am distressed by the abundant reports of a mental health crisis current among young Americans. The statistics and the specific stories of depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts are alarming and sad. Experts have compiled lists of contributing factors, ranging from social media to family dynamics to diet and more. I am not a trained psychologist, and I have no answers. All I have are nagging questions about what effect the two kinds of experience might have on kids as they develop.
The children I see in the park are very well cared for. They stay hydrated and learn the fundamentals of performance. But as my dog and I leave the park, questions swirl in my head. Are these children learning, as we kids of the fifties did, how to deal with the rough and tumble of conflict? How to accept the tough reality of being chosen last? How to create and manage their own experiences? How to bounce back from the disappointment of striking out? Are they developing resilience as a natural part of growing up? Will they go forward in life asking of parents and teachers who have given them so much, what have you done for me lately?
More importantly, are they experiencing the joys of summer. Are they having fun?
Bill Smoot is a writer of fiction and essays, a teacher at San Quentin Prison, and a longtime OLLI faculty member. He received his Ph.D. in philosophy from Northwestern University. Bill is teaching "Film Noir and Philosophy" with us this fall.