T Hee-Hee Ball

by Jody Worsham All Rights reserved due to Climate Cooling.

Our first set of boys was too old for T-ball when we got them so they went straight into Little League. Thus, I had never seen an actual T-ball game. All that would change when the three-year-old turned four.

First there were the practices, all two of them. This could be compared to sweeping feathers or trying to herd chickens. I saw lots of running, all in different directions and not all by the four to seven year olds. A lot of it was being done by the coach, the coach’s wife, the coach-wanna-bees, their wives, and other assorted grandparents, and frustrated guys who never made it to the “Show”. All attempted to herd the chickens around what by the wildest stretch of the imagination could be considered a diamond. Lacking real bases or even white handkerchiefs, trees or strategically placed adults were designated as bases. Thus the flying feathers raced around trees, adults, and each other until it was time to go home. Thus ended the first practice.

The second practice was a repeat of the first, except if you are from the South, when I say they resembled a fire ant bed in attack mode you will have a very clear picture.

Next came the all important uniform. The league provided socks which looked to be left over soccer socks from the ten-year-old league. I could have cut the socks in half and had plenty of sock left for his feet plus enough sleeve warm-ups for the entire team. The hat and shirt were also provided. Each team had a sponsor written across the back of the shirt. I felt sorry for a team of very small little boys who were being sponsored by WWW.LO-SERVICECITY. The only part you could read across their little backs was LO-SER. Our team was being sponsored by a funeral home. At least the words fit comfortably on the back. However, when I tucked his shirt into his pants instead of the front saying he played for the Mets, it looked like he played for the ^ ^, some intergalactic team from outer space.

Finally it was game night. The second day of spring and it was 42 degrees. We arrived at the ball park looking like Nanook from the North. I was hoping our little slugger could still grip the bat with the sweatshirt and additional layers I had put on him under his ^ ^ shirt. Our team was up to bat first and my little Michelin Tire Man was first to bat. He waddled up to the T, turned and posed for my camera shot and his dad’s digital video camera and swung. He hit the ball! I was ecstatic. He watched the ball…and watched it…and watched it until the coach told him to run, which he did, but finding no tree for a base, he ran to the only adult in sight and stomped the man’s foot who then kindly pointed him to first base. In the meantime, the other team stood and watched the ball roll…and watched it roll…and watched it roll…until their coach told them to pick it up and run with it; which they did, back to home plate.

Our second hitter would have made it to first except he paused to introduce a new baseball superstition: hit the ball, run to the edge of the batters box, pick up some of the white dust and toss it into the air. More hits from our team and more little fellows chasing down any adult in sight to stomp their foot and tag in safe. In between hits, both teams entertained the crowd with their rendition of Old Mac Donald played on the aluminum bats hanging from the fence. After everyone had a turn at bat, we took the field.

While batting kept everyone’s attention, playing in the outfield did not. If the ball did make it past the pitcher’s mound, at least four bored little boys raced after the ball and pounced on it in true human dog pile fashion. This was followed by an all-out war for possession of said ball. The batter in the meantime made a homerun by running to third, second, first and sliding into home stopping short of reaching the plate by four feet. He then got up and walked to home plate and jumped on it with both feet.

Later with the bases loaded and two of our boys playing chase in center field, my son making sand tunnels at first, and the two girls on our team playing Ring-Around-the-Rosie at third, their star hitter slammed the ball toward the pitcher. Their guy on second base out ran their guy on third base and made it home to score first followed by the guy who was on third. Not to be outdone the kid on first took a short cut and skipped second and third altogether. Our center fielder missed the ball because he had turned his back to get a different view by watching home plate through his legs. The game was finally declared over after both teams had had two turns at bat and the umpire was turning blue.

I can’t believe I have missed this all these years. Had I known, I would have reserved front row seats for the best stand-up and sometimes sit down comics in town. I can’t wait until the next game. I never knew T-ball could be so funny! T-Hee! T-Hee!