Golden Touch CRAPS

The beautiful AP and I visited our grandchildren, John Charles who is five and one half (we now must use halves in figuring his age because it makes him feel older) and Danielle who will be four years old come June 13, 2011.

That night their parents, our son Greg and daughter-in-law Dawn, would be free to go on a much-needed date and we'd take the kids out to a diner dinner.

Now, the beautiful AP (known as Grand AP) and I (Grandpa Scobe) have learned something about grandchildren-sitting: Plan a lot of activities, preferably going from here to there and there to elsewhere, which is what we did for this day.

In the afternoon John Charles had a T-Ball game. All of us attended; Greg, Dawn, Grand AP, Pops and Nana, his grandparents from my daughter-in-law's side, and Grandpa Scobe.

Before we left the house Grand AP took Danielle to the bathroom. "I always have to pee before I go out because I don't want a full bladder." Danielle looked up at her, "That's why you are Grand AP."

I'd never seen T-Ball before. The teams are composed of five-year olds and are named after major league teams. John Charles' team was the Mets, which happens to be his father's favorite team and therefore his favorite team, and that day they were playing the Yankees, my favorite team. But this day, of course, I was rooting for the Mets.

In reality, there was no rooting for winners or losers because there were no winners or losers. The kids, with monstrously oversized helmets on their little heads, stood at a batting tee with a real baseball sitting on top. Then they would hit, or try to hit, the ball. Coaches stood with them and gave them standing and swinging instructions. Some of the kids were good swingers (my grandson being one of them) and some were just awful. One kid was terrific, the only kid who consistently hit line drives. His swing was awesome.

But being awesome or good or being awful was irrelevant - all the kids were having a ball and the kid could swing for a month until he hit the ball. Everyone cheered even if the kid swung and swung and swung and only hit air or the actual tee but not the ball. Sooner or later, that ball got hit and that kid would run to first base and all the parents and grandparents would scream out "Thata boy!" or "Thata girl!"

All the kids on the opposing team spread out on the field and when the ball was hit they would attempt to catch it. If the ball got past them, a coach was right behind to stop the ball and give the kids a chance to retrieve it and throw it to first base, although you really couldn't throw anyone out because all hits were hits. There were no outs.

Every kid got to first base and all kids on a team got to hit in all three innings. The last batter to get up automatically hit a home run that would clear the bases, although sometimes the home-run hitter was confused about what he or she should do. But the coaches helped them along. One kid ran to second base on her homerun and then turned around and ran back to first.

"You have to go to third," said the coach. The kid did so, running straight to third, right over the pitcher's mound.

Almost all the fans watching cheered every kid. The kids were having fun; the fans were having fun - except for one father. "You see him? You see him?" he loudly complained to the rest of us. "My kid is playing so bad. He sucks. I can't watch this any more," and he walked away. He yelled loud enough that I am sure his kid heard him.

There are no "he sucks" in these games. The purpose of T-Ball is to get the kids somewhat familiar with the game, hitting, fielding, running the bases, enjoying being with other kids on a team, wearing major league-named uniforms and listening to their parents and fans telling them how great they were doing. Being angry because your five-year-old wearing the outsized helmet "sucks," seemed way out of place. I could imagine how that kid would feel when real games were being played and Dad was storming around because the kid made an error or struck out. I didn't think that kid's future would be too good in the athletic department.

My son, Greg, informed me that there were also several parents of that type with other teams.

"They're the ones who will be complaining about the coaches and screaming at umpires when the kid is in little league," he said. "Whatever enjoyment sports can give, those parents will ruin it."

When I told Greg how much I was enjoying the game, he explained the genesis of five-year olds playing the game.

"The very first game, the kids had no idea of what they were doing," he said. "They had all seen baseball on TV and they all thought they had to get their uniforms dirty because they saw major leaguers with dirty uniforms after sliding. So the kids started sliding all over the place. When they were playing the field they were sliding. A few kids slide into the tee when they were getting up to bat.

"When a ball was hit anywhere in the field all the kids ran to get it; it was like a football pile up. I mean you had nine or more kids heading for a single ball. Slowly they have learned to stay in their area and only go after balls that are hit to them or near them."

One kid was standing at first base and I said, "That kid is going to be a major leaguer, see he's already grabbing his crotch." Heads turned my way. No one, except our group, found the joke funny. Greg said to those other parents and grandparents, "My father didn't take his medications today." Everyone laughed.