I was so lucky to have North Riverdale Little League. That’s where I learned to play ball when I was a child. First of all, the place itself was like some kind of magic bubble. It was located in Dayton’s city limits, so it amazes me that such a park existed. The road to get there was off the main drag. There was a little bridge like structure at the entrance, then a long gravel lane to the park itself. I’m trying to remember how many diamonds were there, but I think six or seven in all. Two of those were designated just for the girls, the “Junior League” and the “Senior League.”
Every night of the week, the place was buzzing with activity, games on every diamond. But beyond that was a network of people making that place happen. Mostly parents (but others too), volunteering their time, as coaches, field maintenance workers, concession stand operators. A great system of cooperation and support.
On the girl’s side of things, we had some amazing coaches. Women who really knew the game of softball taught us all about it. A pretty amazing thing, especially for that time. As a result, we were always a force to be reckoned with in tournament play when we faced other Little Leagues. And on the overall, the girls had the same opportunities the boys had.
Honestly, the whole thing was a wholesome, beneficial, and strengthening practice in community.
But that isn’t what I was thinking about. I’ve been to some little league games since then. It doesn’t seem to be quite the same to me, though it could be through two different sets of lenses — those eyes of a child and those of some crusty old adult.
Despite the difference in locale, there are two things I noticed about the players. One, it doesn’t seem that kids hustle as much. And two, there isn’t any chatter. Boy, back then — in the days when we had to walk five miles to school, in the snow, uphill, with no shoes — yes back then — we had to chatter it up every pitch. I thought about it long and hard too. It was good chatter.
“Hey batta, batta. Hey, battttta, batta, battta. Ssssswwwing batta.”
There’s was nothing demeaning, or taunting. No insults. It was just a little message of “encouragement,” coming from the infield.
Batter. Swing batter. That’s all we wanted them to do.
From there, the outcome was up to the batter. Either swing and miss, or swing and hit. But take the chance and do something.
It was a place of magic.
Before every game, our little bodies would run out to the third and first base lines. We’d line up there, our two teams, always careful to get our toes close the white chalk line, but never — ever — touching it. That would have been bad luck. We’d turn and face the direction of the concession stand, where the flag flew, high in the sky.
The National Anthem would play, and then we would recite the Little League Pledge. Every night of the week. At the end it says,
“I will play fair and strive to win. But win or lose, I will always do my best.”
I think the entire United States needs to go back and take a refresher course in Little League 101.
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“If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way.”
— Napoleon Hill
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“Do not fear failure but rather fear not trying.”
― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart
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“Without balance, a life is no longer worth the effort.”
― Olen Steinhauer, The Tourist
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