Batter Up!

That cutie in the pink helmet, pink glove, and brown Padres shirt is ours and today we watched her play her first T-ball game. It was a Saturday morning—opening day—and we were there to cheer a field full of little ones as they took their first steps into the baseball world. Mostly, of course, we were there to watch Mirabel.

Marty and I are seasoned bench warmers dating back decades but it turns out that the grandparent view is the best, even with a foggy memory of uncomfortable seats and merciless extra innings. The demands on us this time are minimal. No coaching, carpooling, team parenting, uniform laundering. Our job now is to show up and cheer. The baton, or bat, has been passed.

Mirabel’s team is the Padres—the ones in the brown shirts. The other team is the Padres—the ones in the white shirts. (I suspect there may be a local sponsor involved.) Happily, the boys only slightly outnumber the girls and they are exactly even in their level of oblivion.

J.T., Mirabel’s father and our son, played T-ball, minors, majors, juniors and seniors. Then he played in high school. And he was a scorekeeper, umpire and announcer. If none of those were needed, he acted as a world class fan. Now he’s a coach and a sweeter one never walked on a field.

So I’m not sure if it fills my heart more to see J.T. coaching these five-year-old wannabes or to see my granddaughter in all her pinkness, play in the dirt at the pitcher’s mound. That’s what they do in the T-ball league. They play in the dirt or, in the outfield, they pull out the grass.

In one memorable play, Mirabel circled the rolling ball until it surrendered. She picked it up and looked around for direction. She’s a smart kid so she knew there was a next move. When the first base coach yelled, “Throw it here! Throw it here!” she did. Along with her glove. The coaches may decide to get more specific in the future.

One little guy waited on second until the first base runner, Lucy, caught up. I’m pretty sure he has a little pre-school crush on Lucy and wanted to make an impression. They chatted for a moment and then he ran to third.

Mirabel’s two-year-old sister stayed busy breaking twigs and splashing in water she poured from my water bottle while her grandfather and I hollered encouragement for players on both teams. One little batter wanted to tell Mirabel’s father all about his two older brothers who had played earlier. Sibling affection is wonderful but it was holding up the game and finally, the coach intervened.

My favorite player today was a kid who yelled, “Fire!” every time he swung and every time he missed the ball but knocked the ball stand about three feet out. The coach moved him back. “Fire!” The ball stand flew away. The ball dropped at his feet. The coach helped him with his grip. “Fire!” The ball fell, the stand flew. Finally, he asked him not to yell “Fire!” and sure enough, he had a hit that a kid in the majors would have been happy with. Next time he was up at bat, he gripped the bat, checked his stance, eyed the ball and yelled, “Fire!”

I don’t know if my granddaughter will stay beyond T-Ball. She seems a little short on athletic prowess. She’s taking ballet and that may not be her calling either but hey, she’s five. There’s lots left to explore and, along the way, her parents—and her grandparents—will be there rooting for her.

I was thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if life was more like T-ball? We would get a hit every time we’re up. Someone would be at each stop telling us how great we’re doing and which direction to go. We would always score and folks would cheer for everyone no matters whose side they’re on. Afterward, we’d walk a line with our teammates and high-five the raised hands of our competitors. If we knew them, we’d stop and hug and nobody would mind if it held up the line.

And then we’d have a snack.