Children at Play
By Teresa K. Flatley

My favorite kids' game wasn't really a game at all.

Like yours my children have been in hundreds of games — baseball, soccer, basketball, lacrosse and deck hockey (one short season; one $35 helmet never worn again.)

Driving by our community park any warm evening, you can see parents doing what we all do and have done: watching organized children's games for hours on end.

My favorite game actually occurred one night after a lengthy little league baseball game. I had picked up my ever present lawn chair and was headed for the car when my then nine-year-old son Steve ran to the mound to practice his pitching.

Problem was Steve was on the mound but there was no ball to toss, all of them having been put away for the night by our weary coaches.

No matter. While Steve went into his best Cy Young windup, another player from our team ran over to home plate and assumed the batter's stance, sans bat.

Steve pitched and the hitter kissed the long ball goodbye, driving it over the fence where it bounced onto Route 8's blacktop. Well, not really, but you get the picture.

The batter began rounding the bases that were his due when two more team members came onto the field, pretended to field the ball and tried to tag the runner out. He was safe by a mile, naturally, and yards of imagination.

I sat back down and watched, laughing along with their antics, taken in by their zest and the fun they were having without adults to organize them: to tell them what they were doing wrong; to instruct them in the right way to play the game.

This makeshift team kept at it for a long time until their parents once again resumed the march to the cars under a dimming sun. I was never so sorry to see a game end.

I was reminded of that free-spirited game recently as I circled the track at our high school, watching an eighth grade gym class playing their own version of baseball, with real equipment this time and lots of attitude.

Once again there was horsing around going on, cheering and jeering, and macho strutting.

As I watched, a boy took his turn, stepping up to the plate. He began swinging wildly, way above his head, at pitched balls. The gym teacher shouted instructions to help him connect with the ball and the guys in the field also yelled encouragement, not as gently but certainly with as much commitment.

He struck out amidst some jeering, then stood off by himself, away from the pack, which kept up its good-natured (mostly) jostling and ribbing.

That same boy was back up to bat just as the coach announced it was time to return to classes. I felt myself pulling for this kid to get any kind of hit as I kept walking the track.

But he struck out again, the last play of that game and I hoped, for his sake, not the focus of lunch room conversation that day.

As he and his classmates gathered up their equipment and headed back to the school, I couldn't help but wonder where those imaginary baseballs and bats are when you need them the most.