Field of Prayers

Sports are microcosms of life where scores are kept. The winners are applauded while the losers are consoled. Sports and more importantly baseball is the historic anchor for the rambling vortex of Yard postings. On this day, I can only think back to the ball fields of Pasadena Southwest Little League. On a Friday in January, the infields are being groomed with the draft a few days away. The players will still be in holiday mode trying to find cleats, mitts and balls that had not seen the light of day since last June. Parents are in earnest mode attempting to multi-task education, sports and social commitments. During February, skills would be found or renewed. Teams and their personalities would emerge throughout the spring. This is baseball distilled down to its beginnings in the pastures of Abner Doubleday.

Baseball has similarities to real life where there is much down time between moments in the spotlight. Everyone eventually has to face the pitcher or make a play. Results are not always as hoped. Parents skillfully magnify a small victory for a ten year old so it resonates louder than a miscue for the day. The resilience and spirit of youth is too distracted to allow those moments to hang in the psyche after the glove is put to rest.

Baseball is the only sport that clears the entire lineup off the playing field each inning. Every three outs, the team gets another chance to make three more while the other watches. These are rare “in game” moments to dissect a play, review a technique or reprimand a lack of effort. But there are many more moments where kids are the storylines not the game. Their personalities morph into the collective soul of their team. Their interplay in the dugout is a Cioppino of anxiety, swagger and diffidence.

The cocky shortstop with the refined skills of his two older brothers bragging his way through the anxiety laced wrapper of expectation. There was the shy pitcher who was exposing his inner athlete a little more with each game. She was a plucky first baseman with an infectious smile and a joyous zeal trying to keep pace with her older brother. The right fielder played because that is what his father expected him to do on Saturday afternoons in the spring.

The kids outgrew little league faster than the parents. Several would play baseball at the next level. Most took their lives to the next level without the mitt. The memory of the team would fade over time but always renew when former teammates might cross paths in school or at a party. Stories were rarely shared just a knowing tell in the passage of time. Team families shared the same community of history. Lives move on with other relationships interwoven into the quilt.

We lost the plucky first baseman this week. It was unexpected and tragic. Her friendship and spirit will be remembered by many. You didn’t have to know her to know that she is the daughter of a grieving family who needs our prayers. In the community built on the field and to the collective spirit beyond that, get out your mitt, take your position and slap your fist into it a few times for her and her family. Let the big guy know we have their back.