To The Oak Tree And Back

When I think back to childhood years many of my memories have to do with playing softball or baseball in the park across the street.  We played a lot of pick up games with whoever showed up that day.  And a lot of the games were developed, or at least fine tuned, on the spot.  

There was “work up” if we only had 8 or 9 kids.  You’d start out in left field and work your way to the next position until you eventually batted.  And when you got out it was back to left field.

If there was only three of us we’d play that the batter had to run from the sweatshirt “home plate” over to the big oak tree and back before the fielder got the ball and threw it to the pitcher standing on the sweatshirt “mound.”  Chances were slim.  And if there were only two of us the pitcher doubled as the fielder and had to field the ball and race it back to the “mound” before the batter was safely back “home” from the oak tree.

In all my years of playing I don’t recall ever having a single coach, or ever remembering by the next day who had won.  If my parents ever happened to see me play, I wasn’t aware of it.  We played for the game.  Not for our parents.  It didn’t matter whose team we were on because tomorrow the teams would be different. And if someone got hurt, ultimately the game stopped.  Because we were more concerned about our friend than the flow of the game.

So much has changed in a generation.

Our daughter Emma was 9 years old and pitching.  Her twin sister Martha was catching.  Our town was playing the bigger town in the tournament.  

The batter was 11, and a head taller than Emma.  She stepped up to the plate confidently, staring down at the puny 9-year-old pitcher. Emma did her wind up and pitched the ball as fast as she could across the plate.  And Goliath connected for a line drive.  The ball took a straight trajectory at Emma and hit her in the side near the kidney.

In an instant Emma doubled over and went down.

I gave it a minute, sitting there on the bleachers, before I stood up.  I always figured if the kids looked at me to see how seriously they might be hurt I wanted to do whatever I could to convey that I wasn’t worried.  

Marthy ripped off her facemask and charged to the mound, as did the rest of the infield.  

The batter hesitated for just a second, until her coach started screaming, “Go!”  

The runners on first, second and third base all stood for that split second, too.  Not sure what to do.  But their coach’s orders were clear.  “Go!  Go! Go!  Score!  Score! Score!”

The bigger town scored four runs off that “homerun” that never went further than the pitcher’s mound. Their coaches, full of testosterone over a little girls’ softball match, were congratulating each other with high fives and pats on the back.

To their credit, the runners for that team didn’t seem as sure of the victory.  And the batter, heavily congratulated by her triumphant coaches, kept turning a wary eye toward the mound and the other team huddled around their pitcher who was still on the ground.  

Emma’s coaches were out on the mound by the time the last runner crossed home plate.  Her team hadn’t made any effort to tag a runner. Or even to pick up the ball for that matter.  Emma was on the ground.  That’s where their focus was.

I stood up and walked toward the dugout.  I called Geoff on my cell phone and let him know what had happened and that we should probably get her checked by the doctor.  Then I stood, just outside the fence, while the coaches and teammates helped her off the field.  

The other team was quiet in their dugout by then.  They were lined up along the fence, looking with concern over at the home team’s dugout. With concern, now that all the runs were safely in.

Emma and Martha’s team ended up losing the game, I think.  More importantly, Emma was okay.  She had a lump and deep bruising on her side for a week or two, and was stiff and sore for a couple days.  But no internal damage.

But that game turned out differently for me than all the rest of the games that season in that I still remember it.  I’ll probably always remember it.  So will our daughters.  

I’ll remember it because Emma got hurt.  But I’ll also remember it as evidence that the winners don’t always win.  And that sometimes the losers don’t lose.  The victorious team, who didn’t seem all that victorious by the time they walked off the field with their heads hanging, had won by taking full advantage of an injured player.  And the losing team, who actually seemed to have already shaken off the defeat by the time they walked out of the dugout with arms on each other’s shoulders, congratulating each other for a game well played, had lost because in the moment of reaction they erred on the side of caring first about the well-being of a teammate, not the number of runs scored.  

Winners aren’t always winners.  And sometimes the losers get the victory.

When I remember that particular game I still shake my head wondering what we adults are teaching our kids.  Are we really thinking that if they win in sporting events as children we will have somehow taught them how to be winners at life?  Have we still not figured that out?  The ones who learn to win at all costs aren’t the winners in life.  That title usually belongs to the ones who leave the field at the end of the day with satisfied smiles on their faces amidst the camaraderie of the team and the assurance of a courageous effort.   

The other piece of that game that remains tragic in my memory is that in the moment after Emma went down the batter and the three runners on base all instinctively stopped. None of them moved.  They watched the pitcher, waiting to see if she was okay. It was the adults on their team, the “coaches,” who ordered them to run, to score.  Their instincts at ages 9, 10, and 11 were to stop and show concern for a fellow player who was down.  Their instincts were not to capitalize on an injury.  This was taught to them.  By the adults.

As glad as I was to have our kids on the team who “lost,” what I watched on the field that day saddened me.  Made me miss the old days.  When adults weren’t even present when we played.  I think it was more fun that way.  And if someone took advantage of someone else being hurt, all the other players would correct that person.  We might even go home and tell our parents about it.  But probably not.  Most likely we’d have solved it on the field.  And the errant one would learn.  That you just don’t play that way.  That’s how losers play.  Race you to the oak tree and back.