at the tee ball game

i am finding much in these spring days to witness, perhaps for lack of much else to do. my participation is occasionally called upon by the moment – as at work, or at a dance, or in conversation at the general store, (maybe even at the post office if i am LUCKY) – but most of the time, my function in this world strikes me as: wandering about, finding a place to sit somewhat still, and paying attention to whatever happens to be going about its business nearby, ideally disturbing it as little as possible. most of the time this is wildlife (a loon on the water, a woodchuck i accidentally scared away from my cabin, the mama porcupine shuffling about in the lawn in broad daylight) but sometimes it is also people. this is something i saw and wrote about this morning on my way to the library, where i now sit typing away in a text editor, instead of doing what i originally set out to do (my work for jennie; sorry jennie). la la la typing typing typing now now. ok:

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somehow in this morning's sleepy wakefulness, i have found myself at a little league game. a very little little league game: children five and six and seven years old, trotting about in their enormous green and orange tee shirts, their tiny green and orange caps with wide brims. a perimeter of family, volunteer coaches, neighbors; a table staffed by older kids selling what i have reason to believe are hot dogs. squealing and screechings and the chatter of parents and singing and yelling and the callings of names. wee bodies dwarfed by the full-size baseball diamond. splashes of color and movement in the grass.

the players take turn swinging large bats at a tee that, if fully expanded, would be taller than any of them. the ball goes bouncing and rolling and jittering and skipping and stalling towards decidedly unprepared, distractedly dancing (or high-fiving, or patty-caking, or dandelion-gazing) pairs of small legs and velcro shoes and sunscreened faces and hands tucked into oversize gloves. only a straggling few are moved to relevant action. the hopeful calls of parents go mostly unheard or misunderstood entirely. but it does not matter, for no one is keeping score.

in this game, it is not out of the ordinary to see the green team's second baseman sitting cross-legged in the dirt, her hat in her lap, watching the third inning unfold around her. it is not at all unusual to see an outfielder spinning in circles, his glove become a two-handed collaborator in the dizzying art of centripetal acceleration. it is hardly strange to see a batter swing, scuffle the ball towards the pitcher's mound, and run himself over to pick it up, handing it helpfully to his opposing teammate. TEE BALL!!!! sing the players and coaches! DON'T FORGET YOUR HATS!!!! they cry!

each meandering arrival to first base is cause for celebration; traffic jams occur routinely between second and third; onlookers cheer at the endlessness of bodies running and running and running, skipping and throwing and sliding and jumping and, often, standing still.

eventually, the game is ended. a photograph is taken. the photographer attempts to wrangle into temporary stillness the ever-wriggling crowd of arms and legs and hands outstretched and wildly gesturing. he is assisted by towering adults wearing team colors. what the photograph commemorates: a saturday morning of airplane arms and cheap plastic chairs and sun. and a forgotten visit to the library down the street, which i intend to soon resume, a little awash in the bittersweet glow of this assembly. i voice an inaudible farewell and will soon depart. to place my feet squarely beneath me, to rise from my bench in three, two, one...