Spring is sprung; the grass is ris.'
I wonder where second base is.
-- T-ball player's lament
T-ball (for the education of those unfortunate ones who have yet to experience the game) is perhaps the purest form of baseball you can find. Pure ... or raw -- I'm not sure which; there is a fine line between the two. Actually, T-ball is both at once.
The game is pure, and it is simple -- far more simple, even, than what passes for the real thing these days. The players -- who are all of 5 and 6 years old -- hit off of the top of a sturdy "T'' upon which the ball has been placed by a coach, who then dives for cover. Once the ball is hit, the batter runs -- and doesn't stop running -- until the fielding team has successfully returned the ball to the "pitcher,'' who is confined to a circular area lined with chalk so he or she does not wander out of position, say, to the parking lot.
Roses are red;
violets are blue.
When you're out in the field,
don't be looking at your shoe.
In T-ball, bunts can become home runs. Home runs can become bunts. It all depends on the T-ball Gods, who decide quite arbitrarily which players will be paying attention to the game and which ones will be paying attention to the dirt.
And then, sometimes, all the fielders will be paying attention, and no matter where the ball goes, no matter how many furlongs it is from their position, if they have to catch a bus to get to it they will, and all nine of them (sometimes more) will pounce upon the ball at once, clawing at it like a flock of turkey vultures fighting for carrion.
By the time the season is over, they may be able to play the game well, but right now the players are raw, like ground beef. Ninety-five percent lean. Some of them are more like 80 percent lean. No matter what they look like on the outside, each one of them is tender on the inside, and must be handled with kid gloves.
Speaking of gloves, one of a T-ball coach's main duties is to remind his players what the gloves are for, which is not -- as is widely believed -- for placement upon the tops of heads as protection from the sun or falling UFOs, which could in fact be a flying baseball, in which case the player will ditch the glove and run for cover anyway.
Jack be nimble.
Jack be quick.
Jack run over ...
Jack? Where're ya goin'?
Matters of direction and sequence are of prime importance in T-ball, and giving direction to a T-ball player can be like questioning a just-awakened coma patient:
"Do you know where you are?''
"What's that white thing over there?''
"And what's your name again, by the way?''
Levels of consciousness notwithstanding, I never met a T-ball player I didn't like, and though I was never a real big fan of baseball, how I love T-ball. It is baseball the way it -- or any sport -- should be played: for the sheer fun and enjoyment of all involved.
Beyond T-ball, the innocence of it all begins to wear off, and there's nothing you can do about it. Like Thomas Wolfe said, you can't go home again.
Well, in T-ball you can if you want to.
