A Slice of American Pie - Shrewsbury Little League

I had on two fleece jackets, a hat, a blanket wrapped around me and an umbrella fighting against rain coming in at an angle. I brought my hot beverage travel mug gingerly up to my lips with my free hand, hoping there was still a hint of warmth to the tea.

Nope. Cold.

A few other fearless folks were seated around me, similarly bundled. No, we weren’t camping in winter or on expedition through northern Canada–we were at a Shrewsbury Little League game last Thursday evening. It was a minor league matchup, Padres vs. Mets.  My 8-year-old danced in the outfield as he tried to focus on the game, but kept eyeing the porta-potty. 

Even as I shuddered against the cold winds of April (only in New England), I smiled as I thought about the many generations of parents, grandparents, extended family and friends who watched with anticipation as the boys of their hometown fought it out on the diamond.

In a world that seems to be moving at warp speed, gadgets buzzing, music permanently hanging from the ears of our youth, Little League baseball still moves as it did 50 years ago. My neighbor says its like watching paint dry, but it’s starting to grow on me.

Little League baseball is a game for boys and their dads. Even though I might label myself progressive and feminist at times, I’m perfectly fine letting boys be boys. The same holds true with mowing lawns or plunging toilets–I’m willing to suspend my women’s rights here.

As I gaze toward the Padres bench, I imagine the dads I see pacing in the dugout today as players on their own minor league teams of yesteryear--their dads sitting in the stands or coaching. The third base coach walks the well-trod path cheering on the batter. The manager stands, arms crossed, peering at each player to check readiness. Behind the dugout, the pitching coach works with a kid who’s dying to get a shot on the mound. Players yell out “Atta boy, Frankie” as he hits an RBI. Truly, I feel I could be watching this game in 1957 in Anywhere, USA.

It was a tough loss against the Mets. My boy struck out after a great hit because he apparently didn’t know what “HUSSLE, kid!” meant. The manager zoomed over to him as he slouched toward his teammates on the bench. I’m not sure what was said, but I have a feeling it was something like “you’re killing me Smalls!”

On the ride home, a sullen second grader asked, “It’s not bad to lose, right Mom?”

“Right, honey.”

“Everyone was so upset that we lost. We don’t really need to win, right?”

“Well, as you get older, you’re going to find kids care more about winning.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” A few sniffles emit from the back seat.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was just the beginning, or to dabble into a conversation about Darwin, capitalism, and the competitive nature of man.

“How about a Happy Meal?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Next game will be Friday against the mighty Braves. We’ll wash the uniform, practice some catching with Dad and be ready for the “boys of summer.” I’ll be there with my hot tea or ice water, depending on the changeable Shrewsbury weather. And my boy will be in the outfield, trading smack talk with the runners on base.

I wish I could freeze these moments in time, but luckily, they’ll be there for the next generation of parents. Little League baseball is a timeless gift millions of Americans get to experience.

Thank you, Shrewsbury–coaches, parents, sponsoring organizations, and, of course, the players--for keeping old pastimes such a heartwarming part of our present.