Nothing reveals the passage of time like the last night of Little League. Assembled on the baseball field of grass and clay stood uniformed boys gathered together to celebrate their teams, coaches, and each other at closing ceremonies. It was the end of the season with the promise of summer and the hope for a new season with a new chance at winning the division trophy that was taller than most of the boys. However, for some of the players, this was the last time they’d stand on the dusty mound they’d come to know so well. It was time to move on to a different league and, for some, from the game of baseball altogether.
For the parents, the warm air on a Monday night hung still in solace of a closing ceremony of another kind. This was the end of Little League for us, too.
I remember the first day of T-ball when the batting helmets were as big as the boys underneath them. Miles had to be coaxed by his mom to run to first base. Running wasn’t nearly as interesting as playing with the dirt behind home plate. Tanner couldn’t hold the bat upright, so he decided to use it as a golf club instead after the ball was tipped to the ground—an unconventional approach to be sure—although he hit the ball every time, so we fudged a little on official baseball rules. Before stepping up to bat, my son, Griffin, wanted to know when we’d have snack time. Focus wasn’t the greatest of attributes for the YMCA Braves T-ball team, but we could party on Goldfish and juice boxes with the best of them.
Through the years, the field got bigger and so did the boys. Their athletic proficiency grew with quicker throws and accurate hits. The notion of teamwork solidified as players learned the value of give and take on and off the field. They became friends, hanging out after practice, playing at each other’s homes, and always begging to stay just awhile longer. Most importantly, the toddlers-turned-boys-turned-adolescents grew to love the game.
And so did we.
Practice and game nights could get a little hectic for an already full calendar, yet, there was nowhere else I’d rather be than sitting on a cool metal bleacher watching my son approach the field.
This was as good as it gets.
Maybe this is why we didn’t want to leave after closing ceremonies had ended. Our team mom organized a pizza party around some picnic benches beside the field. Other parents brought dessert and the coaches handed out game balls and accolades to each player. Some of the boys played together their entire baseball careers, so, it was only natural they grabbed a bat and started a pick-up game where even little sisters were allowed to play. The rest of us cleaned up and swapped stories about our children, families, and planned vacations.
Before we headed home, we reflected on the last activity of the ceremony when the coaches called for the 12-year-old players to take their last run around the bases. Their teammates circled around the runners, high fiving them as they curved the corners. Applause came from the stands as parents dabbed their moist eyes in astonishment that there were no more innings to be played.
The season ended too soon, but the game of baseball—of big helmets and big hearts, of high hopes and high fives—will stay with us for a very long time.