It
never fails to amaze me how quickly the season ends or how, even on the
twilight end of a sticky summer day, you can feel fall in the wind after the
handshakes as the diamond starts to empty. I’ve never been good at endings,
particularly the end of summer.
The sudden finality of an umpire saying, “that’s game” hits me every year, probably because I hadn’t fully turned my mind to what a negative outcome would mean. Wasn’t it just a minute ago that these kids I coach were trying to squeeze out one more playoff win to play another night? Didn’t the warm weather just start? Isn’t it an affront to the baseball gods to end the season in the middle of August, even if it is house league?
Admittedly, a few weeks ago, I had other thoughts. Namely: When can I get 50 pounds of gravel-dust-encrusted baseball equipment out of the back of my SUV where it has taken up permanent residence for the summer? And when do I get my nights, weekends — heck, my summer — back?
The crustiness on me? Well, most of that washed away as I watched the kids — many of them I’ve coached for four years or more — eating cookies brought by a parent and clowning around for a final, impromptu team photo on the grass berm beside the little kids’ diamonds that have been their second summer homes for what seems like far too long. Sour faces? Maybe one or two. But their resiliency always exceeds my own, as evidenced by the team party on the beach a few days later when baseball wasn’t even mentioned. They were more interested in jumping into the lake and playing volleyball as a group of friends, not just teammates. It’s gratifying some of the parents have become friends, too.
Four years ago, when our team was ousted unexpectedly from the mosquito house league playoffs, the kids wanted nothing of my attempt to console them in the post-game talk. They had spied some playground equipment beyond the outfield fence at the out-of-town diamond and were anxious to sprint to it before the light was gone. It’s been like that ever since. This great group of kids has always shrugged off the end of a season without trophies or medals better than the adults — myself included. I’m proud of that.
Other coaches, who sometimes preach that winning is the only thing and fun can only be achieved as a byproduct of success, may blanche at the notion that my house league kids aren’t rocked to the core by losing. It’s not that the kids don’t care. They do. It’s not like they don’t want to win. They try. It’s not like we don’t practice and try to improve. We probably practice more than any house league team and maybe more than some competitive ones.
It’s just that I try to give them perspective.
Ten years from now, there isn’t going to be team reunion planned for the 2015 peewee squad that won the house league division championship. But there is a chance some of these kids will still be friends. I’d like that.
Even better, there’s a chance some of them will still be playing some version of baseball. Having them like baseball enough to play again next year? If that’s the only takeaway from the season, then I’ve succeeded beyond any measure.
That, my friends, is why I volunteer to coach.
Well, that and building memories with my daughter, who insists on playing with the boys and playing real baseball. There’s no point in me trying to talk her out of it.
On the ride home from the ballpark, I was moping slightly, a million things running through my mind, when out of nowhere she cut through the silence to tell me, “This was my favourite season.”
And suddenly, the ending wasn’t the least bit imperfect.