You gotta have heart
By Karlsie
While Steinbrenner throws tantrums and keeps trying to shift things around in order to find a working combination worthy of his $200 million, Arroyo came close to a no hitter. Even with our numbers one and two starters on the DL, we are playing good solid ball which gives me hope that maybe; just maybe, my heart won't break again this August or October.
So it has been a little easier to be diverted by baseball in its purest form: little league.
In case you forgot what originally attracted us to the game, take your lawn chair down your local field and watch those 9-12 year olds play their hearts out. They don't do it for multi-million dollar contracts, endorsement deals or even a paycheck. They do it for the occasional pizza or ice cream party and a trophy or medal at the end of the season.
This is when the only thing between you and a stolen base is the kid on the mound who is sure to throw it over the umpire's head in a pass ball situation. (Which is why, I'm pretty sure, you can't steal home in the minor leagues.)
Kids play with their heart, soul and imagination. They come up to the plate thinking they are the next Manny or Big Papi and are ready to slam that ball over the fence and into the car windshield belonging to one of the parents from the other team. Each kid on the mound is a Pedro or a Schilling and each kid behind the plate is a Varitek.
The scores are more football like: 24 to 18 and you know that at least a dozen of those runs are walks with the bases loaded. But it doesn't matter. You know when the kid with some real strength comes up, at least three or four kids are going to run after the ball that got past them and they might remember you have to throw it to the cut off and not directly to home plate.
Each kid is encouraged when they're younger. Parents stand on the side yelling, "Nice cut," or "Good eye." Kids who have to do the goat walk back to the bench aren't afraid to let their tears show as if to say, "I'm sorry I let you down," to their team mates. Kids on the bench are alternately cruel - telling kids they suck or "what'd ya swing at that for?" and supportive, "Hey, even Manny strikes out - you'll get it next time."
There are no funky patterns mowed into the grass and you know where to play the outfield by the spots worn bare by kids playing left, center and right. There is still innocence on that worn field of dreams until you start moving up the chain.
My oldest boy gave up playing organized ball when he was 13. That was the point when it ceased being about fun and loving the game and became focused and vicious. These were the kids who were now thinking of baseball scholarships and scouting prospects. They weren't afraid to throw at a kid's head that pissed them off earlier that day or week and then say, "It got away from me." They're young enough to get away with it but the kids on the field know better. Kids have moved from the dream of hitting the grand slam with two outs in the bottom of the ninth of game seven in the World Series, winning it for the team and glory to hitting a grand slam of endorsements.
In other words, they have moved from the Red Sox - where you've gotta have heart - to the Yankees where you gotta have cash.
On days when I'm down the field and I see that kind of play, I take a giant step back and wander over to the t-ball field to watch practice. They do "monster walks" (to learn how to step into throwing the ball) and "alligator catches" (to learn a two handed catch with the glove) and I regain my perspective.
I remember one of the endearing qualities of the Sox the past couple of years were the dug out antics. There is something refreshing about professional players taping Pedro to a pole and leaving him there or wearing rally caps that reminds all of us of a time when we dreamed of sitting in that hallowed dugout waiting for Sherm Feller to call out, "Now batting for Boston."
Perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic because this is my youngest's last season of little league. Perhaps it is because I taught my five year old great niece (and the nice thing about more generations - I keep getting greater) how to stand when batting and step into the pitcher as we played baseball with a sponge ball and bad mitton racquet in her grandfather's living room as the Sox opened a can of whoop-ass on the Mariners in the background last night.
I don't know. I just know that every time I hear a player talking about, "It's my job and its hard work," I want to respond, "Yeah, but it's still only a game and the greatest job anyone can have."
People like me can only write about it while they get to live the dream.
