Little Randy

It’s pretty plain to those who know us really well. Brisco is his momma made-over, and Cooper is a little Randy. We see it in pictures, in the smiles on their faces and in the way in which they carry themselves. Brisco is up for getting a laugh, and Cooper wants to work hard and play.

And while this play-boy has been ready for months, I’m the one who has been reluctant to get started. See, I know this little boy inside and out. He is a little Randy, and he will tackle Little League and all of life just like his Daddy: full force.

I plan to be chasing boys and baseball for at least the next 20 years, so I figure why not enjoy the carefree days while we can? But last Tuesday when Sentinel White turned out with only four players, they called up the first scraggly little three year old who chanced to walk by. That just happened to be little Randy.

After a long day on the field with Dad, no supper and no nap, we agreed to let the little guy play his first official game of T-ball. With a speedy shower, a quick peanut butter sandwich, and a moment to get into his official Bulldog uniform (complete with black socks, black belt, and red hat with an “S”), we were off to the ball field, full of anxiety and uncertainty about how the whole evening might turn out.

On the way over, I gave the boy a pep talk about taking turns and listening to the coach and having fun with the other kids. He answered every mommy instruction with, “Ok, Mom. I’ll listen to the coach. Ok, Mom. I’ll take turns. Ok, Mom. I’ll tell the other kids ‘good job.’” His mouth was moving, but I wasn’t sure I believed everything coming out.

Typically, for us, a game of back yard ball includes several at bats where the boy is adamant about the quality of his hits. He’s decided he knows what a good hit is, by the location at which the ball comes to rest. I’ve tried to explain that sometimes hitting well has less to do with where we hit the ball and more to do with how quickly we make it to first base. Full insight into that concept has yet to be comprehended. Cooper’s philosophy? If I don’t like where I hit it the first time, I’ll just take another turn.

This was my biggest worry for our first night of official play. That, and hiding behind my leg when he realized there would be actual people watching him. But as we pulled into the park and met his coach for the night, all signs of shyness disappeared. His personality and demeanor were transformed into a geared up, ready, and raring to go little Bulldog, and he couldn’t wait to get on that field.

The coach brought him a shirt to match the rest of his team, and when he saw that he would be dressed like the others, I thought he would burst with excitement.

If there was a tiny shred of doubt in his mind that tonight he was a real ball player, it all faded when he saw genuine, red numbers on his back. The poor kid has simply become accustomed to the last-minute, pre-wrap tape-jobs we usually slap on the back of his T-shirts. But tonight, it didn’t even matter the number he’d been given. It seemed “one-dee-one” (that is, eleven) would do just fine.

As the game began, I looked on with my camera, and wondered how this tired, excited, in-love-with-the-game guy would do. It turned out that I had nothing to fear. He took his turns hitting and ran around the bases. He played catch with the others and did his best to field the ball as well as any three year old can. But most of all, he had the time of his life.

We still have a long way to go before the days of eight games a week and high-levels of competition, but one thing’s for sure-for this boy, baseball is serious business. And if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times: He is definitely a “Little Randy”.

And that’s All in a day’s work!