Читать книгу Becoming a Counselor - Samuel Gladding T., Samuel T. Gladding - Страница 23

One of the most popular activities of my childhood was Little League baseball for ages 9 through 12. It was democratic. All you needed was a glove and some athletic skill. Although I had the first, I lacked the second. My brother, Russell, had both. He was an All-Star baseball player. He always made the Little League major league teams and was consistently chosen for the All-Star teams after the season ended. As they might say in Game of Thrones, he was a “handsome dragon” and a darn good player!

My adventures in Little League did not pay off nearly as well. I seemed to sprain the fingers on my glove hand every year. Ouch! In addition, I flinched when the ball was pitched over the plate. Instead of batting .500, I batted .050! To be honest, I was terrible! The coaches did not hesitate year after year to cut me (from their rosters, that is). I accepted my fate as a Little League failure better than many boys because I was aware of my skills (or lack thereof). It still did not feel good to come home from the tryout field, with sprained fingers, and tell my parents I had not been picked to join a team, especially because my brother was so good.

Finally, when I was 11, I made what was known as an “International League” team. The powers that were did not want those of us with little or no skill to feel like we had little or no skill. It was a nice gesture. Teams had an international name, but few of us could pronounce them, so we came up with unofficial team names. My team was known by the players as the “Jabberwocky Blue Jays,” and we competed with teams other kids described as the “Awesome Aardvarks,” “Crafty Coyotes,” “Slimy Salamanders,” and “Dirty Dirt Socks.” We played on a less than ideal field with red dirt and rocks, behind a dry cleaner building, a few miles from the pristine, finely groomed official Little League facility. There was no seating. Everyone stood for as long as they could stand to watch. My only dramatic moment on my team was sliding into first base. Other than that, I struck out a lot and made numerous errors in right field. I remember that after seeing one game, my parents never attended another.

Although my failure might have been crushing had I had more ability, to me the constant ritual of not making a Little League team just became a note in the book of life. Besides, I learned that I could keep the scoreboard in center field for those who were on the major league teams at the official Little League field. I was rewarded afterward with a moon pie and an RC Cola. Nothing could have been better!