What I learned in Little League | Guest Opinion

Digging into the batter’s box, I tapped my tennis shoes one by one, then measured the outside border of the plate with the tip of my bat. I spat a single sunflower seed, raised my right elbow, and waited for Larry Avery’s legendary fastball. He screwed the ball into his mitt, wound up, and hurled a rocket directed at my head. In a flurry of arms and legs, I leapt out of the box.

It was not a fastball. It was a curveball, and it swept across the plate like a racecar slipping off a banked corner and into the lead.

“Strike one!”

I was embarrassed . . . humiliated . . . mortified. I crouched, fisted a scoop of dirt, sanded my hands, and eyeballed Avery. The smirk on his lips wreaked of satisfaction and spite.

On the next pitch, I planted statuesque. He could bean me with a wild throw, but I was not budging. His curveball had work so well, I figured he’d sling the same roundhouse but with more speed.

Again, the ball came whirling at my head. I waited a split second as the rock curved toward the plate. The anticipated arc so surprised me my swing was late. Still, I whacked the ball with the fat part of the bat. The right fielder turned and sprinted toward the tall poplar trees. When I rounded the first bag, the first-base umpire said, “Looks like a home run.”

In my entire Little-League career, I had never hit a homer. This was my big chance. When I rounded third base, I looked over my shoulder. The ball was in the hands of the second baseman. It was now or never. I raced for home and slid hands first across the plate. The world went still. A billow of sand shrouded home plate. I gaped at the umpire — eyes wide, hopeful, pleading.

The ump threw his thumb into the air and yelped a vile obscenity. “You’re out!”

Head down, shoulders slumped, I slogged to the dugout. No one said a word. No one slapped my back or patted my butt. And I waited for the earth to split open and swallow me up out of charity. But nothing happened.

We lost that game. But when it was over, I, as team captain, led the boys onto the field to shake hands with every player on the opposing team. Every player.

It was what we did; the tradition was in our blood. We knew it was the right thing to do. If we had scorned our duty, we would have been berated, reviled — by ourselves and others — as whiners, poor losers, and spoiled brats. To snub our opponents was unconscionable and inconceivable, as abhorrent as intentionally “stepping on a crack to break your mother’s back.”

I internalized that lesson years earlier — surely by the time I was five or six.

Which makes me wonder. If a boy on his darkest day can gather the courage to do the right thing, shouldn’t a grown man be guided by — and held to — the same principle?

This story was originally published December 7, 2020 at 1:19 PM with the headline "What I learned in Little League | Guest Opinion."