I Know a Girl
May. 7th, 2018 02:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But, she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hand
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe It's got nothing to do with me
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers be good to your daughters too
Boys, you can break
you'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman's good, good heart
(Daughters: John Mayer – 2003)
All ideas of getting near enough to my subject to take close-up photos evaporated when I saw the pint-sized players scrambling onto the baseball field. Resigned now to shooting pictures from behind the spectator barriers and screens, I watched the slender, long-legged Little League baseball player with the blonde hair bound onto the outfield grass to warm up with two other players. Her long hair sweeping back to the sides of her baseball cap like yellow wings, she ran to a spot and formed a warm-up triangle with her teammates on the field. It is always easy to spot Sarah on a soccer pitch, basketball court, or ball field. Her luminous hair stands out like a beacon, and her quick gazelle movements seem to radiate bursts of charged energy. Her unconscious antics always make me smile. She does spontaneous summersaults on the soccer pitch and skips while running back to play defense in basketball. I haven’t seen enough of her baseball games to identify the unique “tell” which will indicate her happiness level in this new sport. Sarah is a joyous athlete when she plays any game or sport, whether its catch, kickball, soccer, or basketball. Baseball is her newest sport and I was at the North Torrance Little League field to see her play for the first time.
Introducing one’s own children to the sports you loved as a child is a special right of passage. I took Toñito and Prisa to their respective tryouts for T-ball and Softball when each turned 7. Prisa was the youngest on her team when she joined in 1987, but she could catch, throw, and field better than some of the older, more experienced girls. I had played catch with her, and pitched Wiffle balls to her since she was four years old. Prisa “had game”. After playing as a reserve outfielder her first year, she moved up to starting catcher her second, and made the traveling all-star team in her third year as a multiple-position utility player. Even though Prisa played other sports from middle school through high school, she never failed to include softball every spring. She loved the game. Sarah, however, was not playing Girl’s softball; she was playing Little League hardball.
When I asked Prisa about this choice, she explained that she was acceding to Joe’s wishes of having his first-born child play Little League baseball, as he had. It was a preference that I completely understood, but it had also brought to mind an essay I wrote about Toñito’s first experience with baseball, and the lessons Kathy and I learned from it:
When Toñito was seven years old, I proudly signed him up for tee-ball at the local park. I bubbled over with excitement over this new step into organized youth sports. Tony had played three years of AYSO soccer, but that was a messy game. Soccer consisted of little children running around an open field kicking a ball in the general direction of some netting. Baseball was Tony’s introduction into an organized sport that required physical acumen and teamwork. I saw this juncture as his first step on the same road I had traveled as a youth; a journey I could now relive with him. Together, we made the required pilgrimage to a sporting goods store to purchase a fielder’s glove. As I carefully explained how an oversized glove would enhance his fielding abilities, I could see Toñito soaking in every word. He was great at games; but until then, they had been board games, problem-solving games, and mental games that complemented his intellectual and reasoning skills. This was his first athletically demanding sport, and he was carefully listening and internalizing the rules, procedures, and equipment of this new game. Later, I volunteered as an adult helper on his team, assisting with practices and games, but I was more interested in watching Tony’s individual progress. Even though he was awkward at the mechanics of baseball, he looked like a real ball player – being tall and lanky, with long arms and legs. We practiced at home by going out to the front lawn to play catch, field ground balls and fly balls, and bat. There his five-year-old sister Prisa always joined us. Instead of relegating Prisa to the task of “shagging” and returning balls hit into the next yard, Tony was happy to let Prisa bat, field, and throw with his equipment. She got as much practice as he.
Half way through the season, on a weekday afternoon before practice, Tony came into my study as I was working.
“Can I talk to you Dad?” he asked, sounding very serious.
“Sure” I replied, rolling back my desk chair. I was amused by his formality, but I didn’t laugh and gave him my full attention.
“Can we talk alone?” he added.
Now I was curious. “Let’s talk in the bedroom,” I said, leaving my desk and leading the way down the hall. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Tony to enter and close the door.
“Dad” he said, “I don’t want to play baseball anymore”.
I was stunned.
“Did anything happen?” I asked, searching for a specific reason to explain this shocking request.
“No, nothing happened”, he said. “I just hate it, Dad. I’m no good at baseball”.
“Did anyone do or say anything to hurt you?” I pressed, still hoping to find a problem I could fix.
“It’s not one thing Dad; it’s everything. The kids don’t listen when they’re supposed to, and the coaches don’t really teach; they just expect you to play. And baseball is so boring!”
These were only the first erupting emotions that Toñito had been repressing about baseball. I was unprepared for such a litany of unhappiness. Tony was miserable because he felt forced to play a sport he did not value or appreciate. He described the pointless drills, the indecisive directions, and the boredom of standing in the outfield waiting for nothing to happen, because tee-ball batters rarely hit baseballs that far. But even more frightening was the growing fear that my desire to see him play baseball was the cause for his misery. I listened to all he said, and was then compelled to ask the question I dreaded to voice. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to play” he replied, firmly.
The finality of his response was another shot to the gut. “You mean right now?” I asked uncertainly. “You don’t want to go to practice today?”
He nodded silently, never taking his eyes off of me.
I felt the reservoir of my calm demeanor bursting, with the realization that I could rescue my son from all his unhappiness with a word. The onrushing flood of Tony’s misery and my desire to help swept over me. Somehow I managed to stop this compelling impulse. I needed time to think, discuss the issue with Kathy, and reach a calm decision. I paused, took a deep breath and straightened my back as I prepared to speak.
“Tony, I love you,” I said. “I never want you to be unhappy, especially in a sport that is supposed to be fun. But I don’t feel that quitting is the right thing to do today. Let me talk it over with your Mom before we decide anything. There is one thing I want you to think about. When you joined the team you made a promise to be part of it for the season. When I was a boy, there was a time I wanted to quit Pop Warner football. I thought it was too hard and painful; but my parents thought it was important to finish what I had begun. I’m glad you talked to me about this, but I need more time. So I need you to go to practice today. Can you do this for me?”
I saw Toñito take a deep breath and say, “Okay”.
I saw no hint of agitation during practice, and on the drive back home he told me he could await my decision. When I talked to Kathy that evening, she said Tony’s feelings about baseball did not surprise her. She had noticed his general antipathy to yard games and team sports at school, and had observed his preferences for individual achievement and competition. We both felt that it was important to finish the season, even though it would be difficult for him. This was the most painful parenting dilemma we had encountered, because it meant forcing Toñito to remain in a distasteful situation. However, insisting on fulfilling one’s commitment for its own sake seemed like such an archaic, old-fashioned idea. We did not believe in continuing a practice simply because our parents thought it best; we had to weigh the merits of this virtue for ourselves. By the end of the evening, we agreed that there was a lesson to be learned from this issue - for Toñito and us. The last question I asked myself was “Am I prepared to insist on a course of action that Toñito will find painful to endure?” I hated doing so, but my answer was yes, and I knew that I had to tell him by myself. He never looked younger or more innocent than when I asked him to join me in the living room to hear the decision. I could not predict how Tony would react. I had mentioned all the key issues on the first day we talked about this. I hoped that my decision would not be a complete surprise. But Tony was only a seven-year-old child, and I could not expect an adult reaction.
He listened quietly as I repeated the reasoning Kathy and I rehearsed the night before. I told him we loved him, and I was sorry if my enthusiasm for the game had influenced him into joining. However, we also believed that keeping promises was important, and he had promised to join and be part of a team for one season. I concluded by making him a promise: if he finished the last few weeks on the team, he would never have to play baseball or any sport he disliked again; but he needed to complete what he had begun. He did not cry or pout as I spoke; he simply listened, nodding his head occasionally. When I finished speaking, he asked,
“So I don’t have to play baseball next year?”
“You never have to play baseball again, once this season is over” I repeated.
“Okay”, he concluded, “it’s a deal.”
The quickness and simplicity of his answer surprised me. I gave him a hug and said, “Tony, I love you and I’m proud of you. Thank you for accepting a tough decision.”
“Your welcome, Dad”, he replied, squeezing me back. “Can I go play now?”
I tiptoed through the last weeks of the season, watching Toñito for any telltale signs of sadness or pain. I saw none, and when I asked him how he was doing during practices and games, he said “fine”. I finally relaxed at the Awards Picnic at Reseda Park. Two plastic lunch tables were reserved for the team; one covered with trophies and the other with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad and cake. The boys played on the swings and monkey bars, and invented games with loosened balloons. After eating, the coach stood up to thank the parents and award the players for their participation. He called each boy to the table and handed them a trophy, with all the parents clapping and cheering. Some parents called out “speech, speech”, encouraging them to speak, but none did – until Toñito. He was sitting on the grass near the picnic table, so when his name was called he only had to stand up to receive his trophy.
He shook the coach’s hand and said, “I’d like to speak”.
The surprised coach stammered for a bit, and then replied “sure”. Raising his arms for attention, he said, “Tony would like to say a few words”.
Holding his trophy tightly in his right hand, Tony stood up on the picnic bench and waited until the small crowd was silent. I recall his speech going something like this:
“I want to thank the coaches for teaching me to play baseball. I especially want to thank my Mom and Dad for their support at all the games and practices, and for helping me through the year. I learned a lot about the game and I will always remember it.”
I found it difficult to hold back my tears. Who was this gangly youth with the angelic face? What prompted him to call so much attention to himself? There was no hesitation or self-consciousness in his actions or words. The other boys seemed just as astounded, because they all listened intently, without catcalling or making fun.
“I don’t know what the future will bring” he continued, “but I will always remember you and the time we spent together. Thank you.” With cheers and clapping cascading around him, Tony resumed his place and sat down. I just looked at him in wonder as I brushed away my tears of pride. The courage to give this speech matched the bravery he demonstrated during the last weeks of the season. He had respected our wishes, accepted our decision, and suffered the consequences of commitment. He was heroic, and he was free of baseball. As he rushed off with his teammates to resume their competition on the swings, his laughter sounded crisper and happier than it had for a long time.
Although Sarah’s game seemed to go on forever, she batted only once – choosing not to swing at any of the pitches. I will add, however, that she looked great at the plate, holding a fine batting stance and looking terrific in her uniform, with stylish long stirrup socks showing off her long legs. The coaches also did a good job moving the players into different fielding positions between innings. Sarah played both the outfield and infield on different occasions during the game, and she never looked bored or distracted. Her team had managed to string together a few walks and hits and generated some runs this game, but they were still looking for their second win of the season. When the umpire ended the game, each team congregated outside their respective dugouts while their coaches conferred with the umpire and scorekeeper who checked the final tally. With her cap off and hair free, Sarah looked more recognizable, but with a look of studied concentration as she watched her coach walking back from the scorekeeper. Her leap and cheers, accompanied by the boisterous celebration of her teammates, signaled the decision. The Blue jays had finally won another game.
I caught one more of Sarah’s games last week and was truly amazed by how much her skills had developed in a short time. In the batting cage before the game, she had focused on the pitched balls and swung the bat with determined concentration, making solid contact on multiple occasions. During the game, although she had no opportunities to make any fielding plays, she managed to foul off a few pitches when at bat, and earned a walk. The biggest surprise was watching her slide when she stole 2nd base on a wild pitch. When I had a chance to talk to Prisa about these games and her thoughts about the season, she told me that she often missed the sights, sounds, and activities at girl’s softball games. Boys she noted tend to sit silently stoically on the bench in the dugout watching the hitters and the action. They did not spontaneously cheer, sing, or invent dance steps and hand movements to fill the time as girls do in softball leagues. She added that Little League games at this level of ability, were mortally slow, low scoring, and with little quality fielding taking place. She worried that Sarah might find it boring, but admitted that Sarah seemed to enjoy playing, especially since her dad was one of the coaches. She would evaluate the season with Joe when it was over, talk to Sarah about it, and make some decision about next year. I nodded my head in sympathy, but was privately relieved that Kathy and I were no longer worrying about youth athletics and how ones children responded to them. There are some benefits to growing old.
She puts the color inside of my world
But, she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hand
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe It's got nothing to do with me
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers be good to your daughters too
Boys, you can break
you'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman's good, good heart
(Daughters: John Mayer – 2003)
All ideas of getting near enough to my subject to take close-up photos evaporated when I saw the pint-sized players scrambling onto the baseball field. Resigned now to shooting pictures from behind the spectator barriers and screens, I watched the slender, long-legged Little League baseball player with the blonde hair bound onto the outfield grass to warm up with two other players. Her long hair sweeping back to the sides of her baseball cap like yellow wings, she ran to a spot and formed a warm-up triangle with her teammates on the field. It is always easy to spot Sarah on a soccer pitch, basketball court, or ball field. Her luminous hair stands out like a beacon, and her quick gazelle movements seem to radiate bursts of charged energy. Her unconscious antics always make me smile. She does spontaneous summersaults on the soccer pitch and skips while running back to play defense in basketball. I haven’t seen enough of her baseball games to identify the unique “tell” which will indicate her happiness level in this new sport. Sarah is a joyous athlete when she plays any game or sport, whether its catch, kickball, soccer, or basketball. Baseball is her newest sport and I was at the North Torrance Little League field to see her play for the first time.
Introducing one’s own children to the sports you loved as a child is a special right of passage. I took Toñito and Prisa to their respective tryouts for T-ball and Softball when each turned 7. Prisa was the youngest on her team when she joined in 1987, but she could catch, throw, and field better than some of the older, more experienced girls. I had played catch with her, and pitched Wiffle balls to her since she was four years old. Prisa “had game”. After playing as a reserve outfielder her first year, she moved up to starting catcher her second, and made the traveling all-star team in her third year as a multiple-position utility player. Even though Prisa played other sports from middle school through high school, she never failed to include softball every spring. She loved the game. Sarah, however, was not playing Girl’s softball; she was playing Little League hardball.
When I asked Prisa about this choice, she explained that she was acceding to Joe’s wishes of having his first-born child play Little League baseball, as he had. It was a preference that I completely understood, but it had also brought to mind an essay I wrote about Toñito’s first experience with baseball, and the lessons Kathy and I learned from it:
When Toñito was seven years old, I proudly signed him up for tee-ball at the local park. I bubbled over with excitement over this new step into organized youth sports. Tony had played three years of AYSO soccer, but that was a messy game. Soccer consisted of little children running around an open field kicking a ball in the general direction of some netting. Baseball was Tony’s introduction into an organized sport that required physical acumen and teamwork. I saw this juncture as his first step on the same road I had traveled as a youth; a journey I could now relive with him. Together, we made the required pilgrimage to a sporting goods store to purchase a fielder’s glove. As I carefully explained how an oversized glove would enhance his fielding abilities, I could see Toñito soaking in every word. He was great at games; but until then, they had been board games, problem-solving games, and mental games that complemented his intellectual and reasoning skills. This was his first athletically demanding sport, and he was carefully listening and internalizing the rules, procedures, and equipment of this new game. Later, I volunteered as an adult helper on his team, assisting with practices and games, but I was more interested in watching Tony’s individual progress. Even though he was awkward at the mechanics of baseball, he looked like a real ball player – being tall and lanky, with long arms and legs. We practiced at home by going out to the front lawn to play catch, field ground balls and fly balls, and bat. There his five-year-old sister Prisa always joined us. Instead of relegating Prisa to the task of “shagging” and returning balls hit into the next yard, Tony was happy to let Prisa bat, field, and throw with his equipment. She got as much practice as he.
Half way through the season, on a weekday afternoon before practice, Tony came into my study as I was working.
“Can I talk to you Dad?” he asked, sounding very serious.
“Sure” I replied, rolling back my desk chair. I was amused by his formality, but I didn’t laugh and gave him my full attention.
“Can we talk alone?” he added.
Now I was curious. “Let’s talk in the bedroom,” I said, leaving my desk and leading the way down the hall. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Tony to enter and close the door.
“Dad” he said, “I don’t want to play baseball anymore”.
I was stunned.
“Did anything happen?” I asked, searching for a specific reason to explain this shocking request.
“No, nothing happened”, he said. “I just hate it, Dad. I’m no good at baseball”.
“Did anyone do or say anything to hurt you?” I pressed, still hoping to find a problem I could fix.
“It’s not one thing Dad; it’s everything. The kids don’t listen when they’re supposed to, and the coaches don’t really teach; they just expect you to play. And baseball is so boring!”
These were only the first erupting emotions that Toñito had been repressing about baseball. I was unprepared for such a litany of unhappiness. Tony was miserable because he felt forced to play a sport he did not value or appreciate. He described the pointless drills, the indecisive directions, and the boredom of standing in the outfield waiting for nothing to happen, because tee-ball batters rarely hit baseballs that far. But even more frightening was the growing fear that my desire to see him play baseball was the cause for his misery. I listened to all he said, and was then compelled to ask the question I dreaded to voice. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to play” he replied, firmly.
The finality of his response was another shot to the gut. “You mean right now?” I asked uncertainly. “You don’t want to go to practice today?”
He nodded silently, never taking his eyes off of me.
I felt the reservoir of my calm demeanor bursting, with the realization that I could rescue my son from all his unhappiness with a word. The onrushing flood of Tony’s misery and my desire to help swept over me. Somehow I managed to stop this compelling impulse. I needed time to think, discuss the issue with Kathy, and reach a calm decision. I paused, took a deep breath and straightened my back as I prepared to speak.
“Tony, I love you,” I said. “I never want you to be unhappy, especially in a sport that is supposed to be fun. But I don’t feel that quitting is the right thing to do today. Let me talk it over with your Mom before we decide anything. There is one thing I want you to think about. When you joined the team you made a promise to be part of it for the season. When I was a boy, there was a time I wanted to quit Pop Warner football. I thought it was too hard and painful; but my parents thought it was important to finish what I had begun. I’m glad you talked to me about this, but I need more time. So I need you to go to practice today. Can you do this for me?”
I saw Toñito take a deep breath and say, “Okay”.
I saw no hint of agitation during practice, and on the drive back home he told me he could await my decision. When I talked to Kathy that evening, she said Tony’s feelings about baseball did not surprise her. She had noticed his general antipathy to yard games and team sports at school, and had observed his preferences for individual achievement and competition. We both felt that it was important to finish the season, even though it would be difficult for him. This was the most painful parenting dilemma we had encountered, because it meant forcing Toñito to remain in a distasteful situation. However, insisting on fulfilling one’s commitment for its own sake seemed like such an archaic, old-fashioned idea. We did not believe in continuing a practice simply because our parents thought it best; we had to weigh the merits of this virtue for ourselves. By the end of the evening, we agreed that there was a lesson to be learned from this issue - for Toñito and us. The last question I asked myself was “Am I prepared to insist on a course of action that Toñito will find painful to endure?” I hated doing so, but my answer was yes, and I knew that I had to tell him by myself. He never looked younger or more innocent than when I asked him to join me in the living room to hear the decision. I could not predict how Tony would react. I had mentioned all the key issues on the first day we talked about this. I hoped that my decision would not be a complete surprise. But Tony was only a seven-year-old child, and I could not expect an adult reaction.
He listened quietly as I repeated the reasoning Kathy and I rehearsed the night before. I told him we loved him, and I was sorry if my enthusiasm for the game had influenced him into joining. However, we also believed that keeping promises was important, and he had promised to join and be part of a team for one season. I concluded by making him a promise: if he finished the last few weeks on the team, he would never have to play baseball or any sport he disliked again; but he needed to complete what he had begun. He did not cry or pout as I spoke; he simply listened, nodding his head occasionally. When I finished speaking, he asked,
“So I don’t have to play baseball next year?”
“You never have to play baseball again, once this season is over” I repeated.
“Okay”, he concluded, “it’s a deal.”
The quickness and simplicity of his answer surprised me. I gave him a hug and said, “Tony, I love you and I’m proud of you. Thank you for accepting a tough decision.”
“Your welcome, Dad”, he replied, squeezing me back. “Can I go play now?”
I tiptoed through the last weeks of the season, watching Toñito for any telltale signs of sadness or pain. I saw none, and when I asked him how he was doing during practices and games, he said “fine”. I finally relaxed at the Awards Picnic at Reseda Park. Two plastic lunch tables were reserved for the team; one covered with trophies and the other with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad and cake. The boys played on the swings and monkey bars, and invented games with loosened balloons. After eating, the coach stood up to thank the parents and award the players for their participation. He called each boy to the table and handed them a trophy, with all the parents clapping and cheering. Some parents called out “speech, speech”, encouraging them to speak, but none did – until Toñito. He was sitting on the grass near the picnic table, so when his name was called he only had to stand up to receive his trophy.
He shook the coach’s hand and said, “I’d like to speak”.
The surprised coach stammered for a bit, and then replied “sure”. Raising his arms for attention, he said, “Tony would like to say a few words”.
Holding his trophy tightly in his right hand, Tony stood up on the picnic bench and waited until the small crowd was silent. I recall his speech going something like this:
“I want to thank the coaches for teaching me to play baseball. I especially want to thank my Mom and Dad for their support at all the games and practices, and for helping me through the year. I learned a lot about the game and I will always remember it.”
I found it difficult to hold back my tears. Who was this gangly youth with the angelic face? What prompted him to call so much attention to himself? There was no hesitation or self-consciousness in his actions or words. The other boys seemed just as astounded, because they all listened intently, without catcalling or making fun.
“I don’t know what the future will bring” he continued, “but I will always remember you and the time we spent together. Thank you.” With cheers and clapping cascading around him, Tony resumed his place and sat down. I just looked at him in wonder as I brushed away my tears of pride. The courage to give this speech matched the bravery he demonstrated during the last weeks of the season. He had respected our wishes, accepted our decision, and suffered the consequences of commitment. He was heroic, and he was free of baseball. As he rushed off with his teammates to resume their competition on the swings, his laughter sounded crisper and happier than it had for a long time.
Although Sarah’s game seemed to go on forever, she batted only once – choosing not to swing at any of the pitches. I will add, however, that she looked great at the plate, holding a fine batting stance and looking terrific in her uniform, with stylish long stirrup socks showing off her long legs. The coaches also did a good job moving the players into different fielding positions between innings. Sarah played both the outfield and infield on different occasions during the game, and she never looked bored or distracted. Her team had managed to string together a few walks and hits and generated some runs this game, but they were still looking for their second win of the season. When the umpire ended the game, each team congregated outside their respective dugouts while their coaches conferred with the umpire and scorekeeper who checked the final tally. With her cap off and hair free, Sarah looked more recognizable, but with a look of studied concentration as she watched her coach walking back from the scorekeeper. Her leap and cheers, accompanied by the boisterous celebration of her teammates, signaled the decision. The Blue jays had finally won another game.
I caught one more of Sarah’s games last week and was truly amazed by how much her skills had developed in a short time. In the batting cage before the game, she had focused on the pitched balls and swung the bat with determined concentration, making solid contact on multiple occasions. During the game, although she had no opportunities to make any fielding plays, she managed to foul off a few pitches when at bat, and earned a walk. The biggest surprise was watching her slide when she stole 2nd base on a wild pitch. When I had a chance to talk to Prisa about these games and her thoughts about the season, she told me that she often missed the sights, sounds, and activities at girl’s softball games. Boys she noted tend to sit silently stoically on the bench in the dugout watching the hitters and the action. They did not spontaneously cheer, sing, or invent dance steps and hand movements to fill the time as girls do in softball leagues. She added that Little League games at this level of ability, were mortally slow, low scoring, and with little quality fielding taking place. She worried that Sarah might find it boring, but admitted that Sarah seemed to enjoy playing, especially since her dad was one of the coaches. She would evaluate the season with Joe when it was over, talk to Sarah about it, and make some decision about next year. I nodded my head in sympathy, but was privately relieved that Kathy and I were no longer worrying about youth athletics and how ones children responded to them. There are some benefits to growing old.
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