Jul 6

Written by: slevino
7/6/2011 9:02 AM 

Summer is finally here. For me summer doesn't start with the vernal equinox. Not Memorial Day. Not the Fourth of July or 80 degree temperatures. For me, Summer starts with my first Little League summer game. Not summer, I'm talking about Summer — with a capital S. As in Summer Baseball.

Last night, with a brilliant sun behind me and a cloudless blue sky above, I shot a Little League District game between Fairfield American and Trumbull American. This is not just Little Leauge baseball, this is All Stars. The difference between these games and the regular season games is huge. These 12 year olds have worked their entire baseball careers (wink) to get here. They are playing because they love the game. And on these summer days they live only for baseball. They work hard on practice days and they come to the field on game day ready to play hard. They play with meaning and they mean to win.

Last night's game was pool play and featured two teams with 4-0 records. Shoulda been a good game. It started out like a good game. Unfortunately, it didn't hold up that way and ended as a rout. But I loved it nonetheless. Why? Because it is 12 year old baseball, and in their mind (and mine) there is nothing better.

The District Teams play far fewer than the Travel (or Tournament) Teams which may play as many as 25 games. The families caravan together. They share food and good spirits (often in red cups) in the bleachers. Younger siblings make signs and paint their faces. They wear team gear, buttons with the player's pictures and they cheer together. They get to sleep a little late because of a night game. They eat a steady stream of hot dogs and take out food because the dinner hours are spent either on a ballfield or on the way to or from a ballfield.

They play with everything they have today, and can't wait to do it again tomorrow. The structure of the school year is put on hold and life gets a little looser. They're either pulling their dirty uniform pants out of the wash or looking for their other cleat, rushing to get to practice on time. And heaven help the caravan if they are on a winning streak. Someone, somewhere once thought it wise not to mess with karma during a winning streak. I'll bet it was a bright kid who thought of it as a way to get out of doing the laundry once. The winning streak continued and today that fine tradition lives on as a tough decision for the caravan: do they roll down the windows for the fresh (un-air-conditioned) air or risk arriving at the field a little woozy from the intoxicating aroma resulting from combining summer heat, boys and dirty uniforms.

Over the course of their six week (or, they all hope, longer) summer season the togetherness forges deep and lasting friendships. They tell inside jokes that they will still laugh about years later. They share equipment, food, sunflower seeds, gum, drinks, whatever, without being asked.

They put so much pressure on themselves that an error or a strikeout can bring tears of disappointment. So happy after a clutch single or big defensive play that they literally hop up and down with unconstrained excitement. Those highs and lows typically last only until they get to the snack bar after the game and their teammates either pick them up or knock them down a peg or two (depending on what's needed). Then they return, once again, to being 12.

They live, breathe, eat, win and lose together. They are a family.

This is baseball that matters. Not professionals. Not college kids playing to prove they have what it takes to be a pro. Not even high school kids hoping for a ticket to college. These kids are playing for love of the game. God bless 'em, they don't know any better.

But chances are that baseball will never be better than it is right now.

That is why I shoot, and love shooting, Little League Baseball.