Point of View: At Play at Pantigo

“He’s going to Little League?” our daughter asked somewhat incredulously, as if, I suppose, there were more important things to write about and photograph than that.

If she must know, I find it endearing. There is joy there among the 9 and 10-year-old boys, puppies leaping about, directionless but full of life, that is hard to find elsewhere. How the coaches manage to coach them I don’t know — they are unrestrained.

Most times, I think, they’re thinking of something else, their minds are wandering about — this, by the way, was something the late great basketball coach Ed Petrie used to speak of, with a bemused smile, when talking of some of his teams. But then, in rare moments, when they really bear down and concentrate, oh boy! It’s like Roy Hobbs meeting the Marx brothers.

And I think this giddiness, this joy of being a boy of 9 or 10 or 11, has a tendency to rub off on the crowd. I know parents are often accused of being overbearing, of taking the fun out of their children’s play, but those I saw seemed content just to be there the other evening at Pantigo in the sunset, and not overly concerned with the outcome.

(Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that by the end of that evening’s two games three teams, all at 9-3, could say they were pennant-winners, befitting my egalitarian view of this town.) 

And there were things, aside from that communal feeling, to marvel at: a terrific catch of a low, hard-hit line drive down the third baseline, a clout to the fence in deep center, a speared line drive near second that seemed as if it would be a base hit, relays that nailed runners trying to take an extra base. . . . There were miscues too, of course, as bases were overrun, as wild pitches, triggering a dash from third to home, were chased to the backstop, as cupcakes at times proved more compelling than the number of outs and the pitch count or a coach’s call to grab a bat and go hit for Johnny.

Why wouldn’t I want to go to a Little League game? It’s fun.