T-ball time again

Years ago, our three-yearold, gaze glued to the television, watched baseball with Grandpa. In his chubby hand, he clutched paper and pencil with which to record scores. Though he could not yet write.

His grandfather enthused, “That Daryl Strawberry sure can hit.”

Our son turned an indignant face to him. “Grandpa, that isn’t Daryl Strawberry.” He was right.

It was then I knew I would invest dozens of summer nights in ballparks, sitting on hard bleachers, slapping mosquitoes, and cheering on my Little Leaguer — beginning with T-ball.

Do you remember playing T-ball? The kiddie baseball variation did not exist when my husband and I first discovered bats and balls. Like most Hoosier kids during the 1960s, we played neighborhood softball. I discovered my distinct talent for missing flies every time. Hubby finally learned to hit the ball — when new eyeglasses revealed its existence.

Thank goodness, our five-year-old could start his baseball career with T-ball — and his best buddy’s dad, a patient, caring coach.

Fortunately, our son already had practiced, using his backyard tee. Given three attempts, he managed to hit the ball — as did most of his teammates.

Still, challenges abounded. Four-year-olds who had not yet learned to count demanded seven strikes. Players chopped at the ball as if cutting wood. Occasionally the tee, instead of the ball, flew into the air. Confused fielders stared at it, then at oversized mitts. How were they supposed to catch and throw this thing to first base?

Napping outfielders found a hurtling ball a nuisance. Others preferred to make dandelion chains for Mommy. One future ballerina, practicing at the shortstop position, eyed the ball with disdain, doing pliés as it whizzed past.

Some days, though, adrenalized players all wanted to be the hero who got the batter out. Can you say, “gang tackle”? Or, “wrong sport”?

As teammates fought for the ball, it spurted into the crowd. Inevitably, a toddler carried it off — until Mean Mom, ignoring his screams, returned the ball to play.

Home runs abounded. Even when he struck out, speedy Harley, an irrepressible five-yearold, ran all the bases, eluding protesting fielders and tired coaches.

“Home run!” he’d yell, crossing the plate and high-fiving bewildered teammates.

Though many final scores reached 20-plus, Home-run Harley calculated their passing 100.

Eventually, our son left T-ball behind for more serious competition. Nobody took naps. Nobody practiced pliés.

Where was the fun in that? While I celebrated the league championship our son’s 10-13-year-old team won, I missed the never-ending drama and creativity of T-ball.

Fast-forward three decades. Again, I sit on hard bleachers in blazing sun. Ripe with sunblock, bug spray and pride, I anticipate a T-ball game I never envisioned 30 years ago. Our grandson’s.

He joins a flock of pint-sized ballplayers wearing baggy shirts that reach their knees, shorts that reach their ankles, and hats that reach their noses. Fielders lift mitts that approximate half their body weights. Our son is an assistant coach, aka crowd-controller. He walks players to their positions, as some might get lost. He and the head coach, a smiling mom who still rules softball fields, demonstrate watching the ball, catching and throwing.

T-ball, like everything else, has become educational. Which is good.

My heart warms, though, when an outfielder drops her glove and picks daisies. Though the pitcher does not do pliés, he dances like a jitterbugger, consumed with the joy of playing. Our son positions himself near a player whose defense consists of tackling runners. Several times, the brave assistant coach referees a fielder pile-up.

Our six-year-old grandson, older than most teammates, can even hit the ball pitched by coaches. Having inherited his father’s early passion for baseball, he has been smacking it off a tee since he learned to walk.

“He’s a much better player than I was,” our son admits during a family Zoom session.

“We’ve got a good trend going,” his grandfather says. “Your dad was a better baseball player than me. You were a better player than him. Now your son’s even better.”

“Maybe someday,” I interject, “I’ll look down from heaven and watch our descendant in a Cub uniform, smacking a home run to Waveland Avenue.”

Fun to project our dreams on future greatgreat-grandsons.

But do such extravagant visions begin to rival the fun of T-ball?

Nah.