Pressdog.com

Go Bunnies!

By Bill Zahren
Posted 05/31/02)

She stood at home plate in a huge batting helmet, swaddled in the logos of her American-ness -- Bike® softball pants, Nike® bat, Adidas® shoes.

Couple nervous chews of the gum. A scratch of the dirt with her child size 1 1/2 soccer/softball shoes. A few two-front-teeth-missing grins.

Standin’ in.

Starin’ down.

Waiting for her pitch to hit.

The pitcher (coach Chris) tossed it -- tricky underhand lob, lots of deceptive spin -- and Jena the Destroyer loosed her full wheelhouse fury upon it. Swing and a miss. Crowd: “Good cut! Good swing.”

The thunder struck just one pitch later -- a sonic BOOM that reverberated off the aluminum bat, the sound of power venting from within Jena’s 7-year-old, 45-pound body.

No. Wait, the boom was my wife, Rhonda, exploding into mother-of-the-batter bits. The hit was also our cue to attempt, via yelling and bodily gyrations, to activate Jena’s embryonic “run to first” instinct. It wasn’t easy. Jena, at first stunned that she even hit the ball, just stood at home and observed the majesty of the blast as it hopped down the third-base line.

By this time, Rhonda and I were nearly coughing blood from shouting: “Run! RUN! RUN TO FIRST. GO-GO-GO-GO-GO-GO-GO. RUN.” Meanwhile, the parents of the third baseperson frantically tried to activate their daughter via similar gyrations and shouts: “GET THE BALL. GET IT. THROW-IT-THROW-IT-THROW-IT.” Then it was the first baseperson’s parents’s turn: “Catch it! CATCH THE BALL.”

The whole play took about 30 seconds -- still a relative flash within the glacial pace of youth softball -- after which all the parents collapsed into a heap, emitting the obligatory “Good try!” and “Way to run hard!” encouragement to everyone involved.

Then we resumed talking about our lawns and road construction, knowing that it would be several hours if not days before someone else hit the ball. It’s all part of rockin’ local, volunteer-run girls softball association life. It’s all good. All wholesome and healthy.

All affirming and just-have-fun -- right down to the team names. My daughter plays for the Bunnies. Way back in April, Jena almost burst into flames when she got her pink jersey with “Bunnies” in baseball style script across the front and a little bunny head underneath -- striking. The big number “9” on the back marked her acceptance into The Team.

From now until mid-June, you’ll find me at Holiday Park, trying not to spill my beer when I bounce up and scream, “Go Bunnies!” (Kidding. No beer allowed at youth softball games. It sets a bad example and cuts into the concession stand Scotch-in-a-Cup sales.)

No, seriously, everyone knows the beverage of choice for suburban girls’ softball is Chablis or possibly a nice port in the late innings. On rare occasions, when conversation turns to the stock market, we’ll get so emotional as to instruct the staff to decant an impudent red vintage.

We toast the Mighty Bunnies. The rest of the team names are similarly non-threatening. Jena’s first career hit came against the feisty Wallabies, resplendent in their teal blue jerseys. Since then we’ve played the Lady Bugs (Go Bugs!) in yellow and the fighting Chipmunks in their brown jerseys, blending in with their dirt infield environment. Gathering nuts for the winter. Shifty. We also played the always-tough Ponies and, most recently, the bad-to-the-bone Robins.

I’m digging the cool team names. And, much to my surprise, I’m digging going to the games as well. This from a guy who thinks baseball and softball are best used to cure insomnia. But a funny thing happened on my way to supposed boredom at Jena’s games. I realized that the single-digit years are the best time to be a sports parent. For now, having fun is still the object of the game.

At this age adults have yet to teach the kids to cry to the officials and show disrespect to the other team. Most refreshing is elementary schoolers' steadfast refusal to make sporting events into a life-and-death situations. The two-a-day practices, winning-is-everything attitudes and living-through-your-children parenting are still years away.

Soon enough, I’ll find myself thinking, “If that guy doesn’t quit riding his kid for failing to stretch a double into a triple -- and arguing balls and strikes with the ump -- me and my kids are outta here.”

It just seems many adults go out of their way to leech all the fun out of sports for kids. Their brains end when the games start. All sense of perspective vanishes and suddenly our kids hear that results (winning) mean more than effort (trying). Before you know it we have a father beating another to death after a youth hockey game.

Or more subtle stuff, like a local high school coach who got knocked down by some opposing fan after a basketball game. Repeat after me: “It’s only a game that has no effect whatsoever on your family honor or the value of you or your children as human beings.”

Contrary to what you hear in the stands and see on TV, in life effort is always more important than results. The kindergarten softballers know that instinctively. And I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer weeknight than basking in their sheer joy of the game.

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