Back in May as my two oldest sons’ baseball seasons were deep into late nights and long weekends, I heard something that made me question one of my parental decisions; and it’s been in the back of my mind until now.
Like so many little boys across the U.S. in the Spring and Summer seasons, our boys play baseball. They are on two teams out of over 200,000 other teams in all 50 states this year who played games (littleague.org). It truly is America’s pastime.
Our boys play Fall Ball in September through October, then they play for Dixie League in the Spring which lasts from March until July including All-Stars. They play weeknight games, weekly tournaments, 2-3 nights a week of practices, attend camps, and team fundraisers. It takes up most of our family’s life during these 5-6 months each year. We also squeeze in soccer season in March-May. Daddo and I grew up doing the same thing; sports and of course baseball were how we spent most of our own childhoods. So the constant traveling, packing gear, buying gear, paying registration fees, and organizing our family’s weekly games and practices for two kids on two different teams, never crossed our minds as being too much.
Then came the warm Saturday afternoon in May. While I was explaining our last few weeks of end-of-school events coupled with three baseball tournaments, week night games, and hours of late night practices, someone who I look up to very much; perhaps one of the few people in my life who’s advice and guidance is very important to me said , ‘So when do they get to be little boys?’
I paused. Why wasn’t she oowing and ahhing at their recent accomplishments in baseball? Didn’t she hear what I said about Cole’s team winning yet another tournament, and Will hitting a homerun over the fence? My mind started racing trying to come up with a few examples of ‘little boy’ things they had done recently. ‘Sure they play outside and run through the woods all the time,’ I said. Is that what she’s talking about? I thought.
‘Well as long as they get plenty of chances to just be little boys,’ she said again.
The rest of that day was spent finishing up one son’s tournament and heading into another week of games and practices. But in the back of my mind I was wondering about that question. Do they get to just be little boys? I never said anything to either one of my boys who play ball. Instead I just watched them a little closer. I watched for smiles and laughter while they were at practice. I watched for how fast they got dressed in their uniform and headed out the door for yet another game. I watched how they acted at home when they weren’t playing ball. I talked to other moms about what their own sons said about playing and how they act at home before practice and games. Were we making our 8 and 9 year old boys play too much organized sports?
I watched and I listened for six weeks.
My oldest son’s all-star team played in five tournaments in six weeks. That one week off he was invited to play in Dallas with another team. We asked him if he wanted to play and before we could finish the question he said ‘YES, I wanna play!’ I watched how he acted and handled all of the pressure. Each tournament was 2-3 days long in the Texas summer heat and humidity. Each tournament I watched my son and his friends on the ball field high five each other, laugh and play ball. Between games and at late night championships, they were hanging with their friends way passed bedtime, eating snow cones and fast food. They sometimes played three games in a row finishing the day covered in sweat and red dirt from head to toe. They battled back from a loss to beat teams they had no business even playing. I watched them encourage each other and yell for one another from the dugout. I watched them help a teammate cool down when he got too hot, and help a teammate after he slid too hard into home and struggled back to the dugout. I never heard one kid tell his mom he was bored, wanted to go home or didn’t want to play. And if one of my kids say they’re done and don’t want to play anymore, then that is their choice. But you bet they will finish that season and their commitment to their team. Through all their sports teams, they have learned what it means to depend on others and for others to depend on them. That includes finishing the season. One summer night, a teammate’s family invited all 11 players over for a sleepover. That mom texted me around 11pm saying the boys had been out in the front pasture playing baseball for over two hours and were now asking to set up the Slip n’ Slide. I noticed that.
This group of boys gets to play for the state championship in a little over a week. They already took their Regional title with such calm and focus. I was telling my friend the other day that I don’t think as a 9 or 10 year old kid I could’ve kept such focus and determination for one activity for so long. They play their hardest every single game as if it’s the championship game every night. I know they truly love what they’re getting to do when their level of intensity stays the same and their attitude is always fun and energetic. I watched this.
My younger son’s team is filled with 7 and 8 year olds just finishing 1st and 2nd grade. The roster had 10 players for 10 positions. No one could quit or get sick or injured. They played two practice tournaments getting 1st and 2nd places. At their District tournament they dominated their opponents outscoring them 68-5 in five games. Daddo was the head coach and he loved those boys so much. By the end of the season, my son had three new close friends and whenever they went to each other’s house they too always ended up playing ball in the yard. They’d get rocks or hats or shoes to make the bases, and depending on how many players they had, they’d divide up the teams evenly; sometimes 3 on 3, or 2 on 3 with the term ghost-runner perfected.
By the end of one of those long tournaments, I could always depend on one of my boys having a plan worked out with a teammate to have a sleepover. And when I wasn’t too exhausted from the scorching day in the sun chasing my two toddlers around and I said yes, those boys usually ended up playing yard ball the next day with a stick and a wiffle ball. Sure they’d do other fun things like swimming and riding bikes. But if there were more than three of four of them together, they’d always get a game organized.
I took notice of this. I listened to my own sons as they talked about their games; how they talked about their teammates and their friends; how they took up for them when they knew they had made a mistake. But he’s a great hitter, he just had a bad couple of bats. He’s so fast and never misses a ball.
When school let out, the local baseball camp my boys attend every year was right in the middle of my younger son’s District tournament and my older son’s practice games. We decided to skip the camp this year for fear of them getting burned out. When they found out camp was going on without them, they were devastated. We regretted the decision.
It takes sacrifice from everyone in the family and I took notice of that too. The night of July 4th my crew was in a motel getting ready for my younger son’s state tournament to begin the next day. Our annual tradition of watching the firework show at a nearby park had to wait until the next year. I called around the town we were in to see what festivities were planned and the nearest fireworks were 30 minutes away. That was definitely a bummer, but you know what, not one of my kids even asked about fireworks or mentioned missing them. We were there for baseball and we there together.
That’s something we have made a priority is doing all of this together. As hard as it is to pack for six people and two toddlers for every game and tournament, it’s valuable family time. We spend all our other free time traveling in our camper and playing together at home. Our kids’ activities all revolve around how Daddo and I can work it out to where we’re together for most of it and especially for every night at dinner.
That state tournament with my 8 year old’s team and Daddo as the coach really reaffirmed my belief that baseball is how my boys get to be little boys. His team lost their first game by two runs. They made mistakes they never usually did. They had to come back and win four games in a row over the next two days. The temperatures averaged around 95-97 degrees. In between games they sat together under canopies, played chase and even found a creek running through the nearby park that had tadpoles in it. When my son ran up to me in his uniform carrying a cup of water with tadpoles swimming around, I noticed that too. Those little boys were doing exactly what they loved to do; play ball and play with their buddies.
Those little 7 and 8 year old boys showed such heart and determination. They were all expected to have manners and say yes sir and no sir. In the semifinal state game we were tied in extra innings when our catcher made an over throw to third allowing the other team to score two runs. Daddo walked out there to him, his head hanging low, his helmet still laying on the ground from him throwing it off for the throw. He said it was then, when he saw the look of disappointment on the catcher’s face and the huge crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks, that he knew how far the team had come. I asked him how he meant. I didn’t understand. Then Daddo reminded me. Only three months earlier that kid had never even put on a glove or swung a bat. Now there he was making the correct game-time decision and knew he had made a bad throw. And he was mad at himself. Of course that one play wasn’t the only game-changer that night. But to that kid; that 8 year old; he knew he had let down his team. After that game ended and that other team went on to win the State title our boys knew what it meant to get so close to something they wanted so bad and to only watch it slip away. No they weren’t running through the creeks at home or fishing in a pond. They were wearing their uniforms and playing ball in the dirt with their buddies. They were learning what it meant to struggle and to fight back with grit and determination. They were learning to depend on one another and know it took more than just themselves to win a game. I watched. I saw little boys get tagged out and smile as they watched their teammate run home from third. They understood the meaning of ‘sacrifice’ for the team.
No my boys aren’t home every day digging in the dirt or baiting their hooks. Sure they get to do that plenty. But they also get to play a game with their buddies all the time. They’re taught how to respect, show humility, be tough, have manners, stay focused and determined and to work as a team. I love the person who made me think about this. I’m so glad I stood back and considered the idea of too much because it can happen. We have four kids. We will one day have four kids on four different teams. I will not let my family fall apart just so we can run around every night to all kinds of activities. There is such a thing as too much. But I will also do everything in my being to help each of my kids get to do what they love to do. I want each of them to have a passion. I want each of them to have the opportunity to learn the meaning of team work, dedication and humility. Whatever their passion ends up being, I will help fuel that and guide them. And I will always watch.
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