A few months ago, a paper came home from school announcing sign ups for baseball through the city recreation department, and Duncan expressed an interest. I was uncertain - he's never played team sports before, and I wasn't really sure if it would be his cup of tea. Not wanting to be a pushy mom, I filled out the application and the check, then sat down with him and explained the ramifications. This is a commitment to a team. It was his choice whether to sign up, but if he did, I was going to expect him to see it through. I gave him the envelope, and he chose to put it in the mailbox himself. And then, the frustrations ensued!
Duncan Disorderly is (a) gifted; and (b) an only child. He has little experience working in a team situation. He is accustomed to being good at things right away. New concepts and skills tend to come easily, and when they do not, he gets frustrated quickly and will often attempt to quit rather than risk seeming less than perfect.
At the very first practice, after swinging away fruitlessly at several pitches, the boy walked off the field. There were tears. There was anger. And he was totally "QUITTING BASEBALL!!!"
At the third practice, I was informed that they were "using the wrong ball" with him. Apparently, they have a special heavier, deadlier baseball that they use when it is his turn in catching practice. He simply would not accept that all baseballs were standard. He'd been hit by the ball a couple of times, and though he was no worse for the wear and not even bruised, he was "QUITTING THIS STUPID TEAM!!"
I gotta say, I was very discouraged at this point. As much as I did not want to subject him to forced misery throughout the summer, I had to stick to my guns. He had understood the commitment, and chosen to accept. "You have to see this through," I told him. "After this season, if you don't want to sign up for baseball ever again, I'll still be proud of you for trying this." The look I got was withering. Then, after a few weeks of practices, the games began.
Coach Pitch baseball with eight-year-olds has got to be the most informal sporting event I have ever attended. The coach, as the name suggests, does all the pitching, and "three strikes you're out!" seems to be replaced by six, seven.....eight....oh heck, let's give the kid one more chance, he'll hit it this time. Given that this could lead to a neverending inning, the kids are generally encouraged to take one base per hit, and innings end when each kid in the batting lineup has had a turn. And near as I can tell, they don't keep score. Fine by me, but some parents actually got a bit irate.
"Look at that," said a mother beside me, after the last batter hit a fly ball that was caught near first base. "He's out. Why is the coach letting them all run home?"
"They're having a good time," I said. "That was the last kid, the inning's over. They've all got to come back anyway, and they're not keeping score."
She puffed up angrily. "Well, we are!" Whatever.
And my kid? He didn't do too badly! Not the best kid on the team by far...but getting a solid hit at bat and getting to run bases while I cheered did wonders for his attitude about this whole baseball thing. I do wonder if he believes he volunteered to play in the 'floatfield'. I could never quite suss what position he played. Shortstop, perhaps, but at various points in the game he seemed way closer to third, or second, or even to the far outfield, generally striking up conversations with other players, or examining the grass, or off in daydream land.
Still, he's happy now. Coming up to me after the game, trailing more dust than Pig Pen, sporting his City Recreation baseball cap and a shirt that had his number on the back and the team name "XYZ Dental" on the front (oh yeah - athletic sponsorship!), he slung his bat casually over his shoulder and gave me a gap-toothed smile that melted my heart.
"That wasn't too bad," he said. "I guess I'm kinda looking forward to the next game."
Duncan Disorderly is (a) gifted; and (b) an only child. He has little experience working in a team situation. He is accustomed to being good at things right away. New concepts and skills tend to come easily, and when they do not, he gets frustrated quickly and will often attempt to quit rather than risk seeming less than perfect.
At the very first practice, after swinging away fruitlessly at several pitches, the boy walked off the field. There were tears. There was anger. And he was totally "QUITTING BASEBALL!!!"
At the third practice, I was informed that they were "using the wrong ball" with him. Apparently, they have a special heavier, deadlier baseball that they use when it is his turn in catching practice. He simply would not accept that all baseballs were standard. He'd been hit by the ball a couple of times, and though he was no worse for the wear and not even bruised, he was "QUITTING THIS STUPID TEAM!!"
I gotta say, I was very discouraged at this point. As much as I did not want to subject him to forced misery throughout the summer, I had to stick to my guns. He had understood the commitment, and chosen to accept. "You have to see this through," I told him. "After this season, if you don't want to sign up for baseball ever again, I'll still be proud of you for trying this." The look I got was withering. Then, after a few weeks of practices, the games began.
Coach Pitch baseball with eight-year-olds has got to be the most informal sporting event I have ever attended. The coach, as the name suggests, does all the pitching, and "three strikes you're out!" seems to be replaced by six, seven.....eight....oh heck, let's give the kid one more chance, he'll hit it this time. Given that this could lead to a neverending inning, the kids are generally encouraged to take one base per hit, and innings end when each kid in the batting lineup has had a turn. And near as I can tell, they don't keep score. Fine by me, but some parents actually got a bit irate.
"Look at that," said a mother beside me, after the last batter hit a fly ball that was caught near first base. "He's out. Why is the coach letting them all run home?"
"They're having a good time," I said. "That was the last kid, the inning's over. They've all got to come back anyway, and they're not keeping score."
She puffed up angrily. "Well, we are!" Whatever.
And my kid? He didn't do too badly! Not the best kid on the team by far...but getting a solid hit at bat and getting to run bases while I cheered did wonders for his attitude about this whole baseball thing. I do wonder if he believes he volunteered to play in the 'floatfield'. I could never quite suss what position he played. Shortstop, perhaps, but at various points in the game he seemed way closer to third, or second, or even to the far outfield, generally striking up conversations with other players, or examining the grass, or off in daydream land.
Still, he's happy now. Coming up to me after the game, trailing more dust than Pig Pen, sporting his City Recreation baseball cap and a shirt that had his number on the back and the team name "XYZ Dental" on the front (oh yeah - athletic sponsorship!), he slung his bat casually over his shoulder and gave me a gap-toothed smile that melted my heart.
"That wasn't too bad," he said. "I guess I'm kinda looking forward to the next game."
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