Column: Humble beginnings both on the diamond and off

My conservation district staff and I are soon to host an education event for a busload of preschoolers who will arrive at our local nature preserve ready to learn all about the flora and fauna of northeast Ohio while enjoying a lovely stroll through the autumn woods.

Oh, who am I kidding here? Those kids are going to be so cranked up with stomping around in boots, finding acorns on the trail and gathering up armfuls of fallen leaves to toss into the air that the best lesson we can really hope to instill is that it’s fun to be outside once in a while. Nevertheless, we’ll do our best and are optimistically planning around attention spans of five minutes or less.

On a closely related note, Kristin and I attended our 5-year-old grandson’s baseball game the other day. While, in my opinion, fall ball is best left to major leaguers, James and his contemporaries are learning the rudimentary points of the national pastime in September because demand for diamond time is at its seasonal low. That part of it makes sense. The part that doesn’t make sense is trying to teach 5-year-olds how to play baseball. (Before you start scripting your hate mail, remember that I often say things in mild jest in this column.)

Observing the spectacle as a grandparent is infinitely more entertaining than actually participating as a child—an honest claim based on my own experience.

As I watched the first baseman, who in this case happened to be a pig-tailed girl, kneeling on the bag to draw pictures in the dust with a stick while the coach tossed his tenth whiffed pitch to the leadoff batter, I was reminded of the intense boredom of my own early baseball career.

A chubby kid cursed with seasonal allergies and prone to mental flights of fancy, I spent most of my playing time, standing or even sitting in the outfield, examining the ground for insects and hoping to discover the inner secrets of ants. Occasionally, the spirit would move me to lie on my back looking at the sky while wondering if space aliens really did exist—and praying that if they did, they might come down to rescue me from this hopeless boredom.

Back to the current day, most of the kids seemed more engaged than I was as a child. James, for instance, was one of the many who would chase every single ball (whether hit, thrown or merely dropped) like a greased pig at a drunken picnic. (And when I say one of the many, I mean every player, no matter where assigned.) When the scrum finally caught up with the ball, a melee would ensue until one lucky child emerged from the dust cloud, gripping the stitched sphere in dazed triumph. Throws were not taken; plays were not made. Holding the ball seemed to be the reward all its own.

Baseball for kindergarteners appeared as it should be, an exercise in mere exercise. Sure, some kids will catch the baseball bug, and a few may even end up in the big leagues someday. Most, however, will simply move on to some other more personally engaging endeavor. Here’s hoping that at least one of them grows up to reflect upon the whole mess in lighthearted prose. Baseball is nothing without its stories—even those of the most humble beginnings.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.