The Westmoreland Eagles 2020 baseball schedule. March 11 was the last game they played.
Part One: Written June 16, 2008
We spent Father’s Day at the baseball park. It might not seem so unusual except for the fact that for the last three months our family has been at the baseball park almost every night of the week. From a family of three girls has sprung a team of athletic kids—nine to be exact, eight of them boys, and with the exception of the youngest they all played baseball this year.
In fact, the Saturday before Father’s Day was my oldest son’s last game in major Little League. We had three ball games that day, and my son’s team, which had not performed too well in season, had managed to scramble to the championship game in tournament play. They had done well. But the last game, with all its excitement, was also a flurry of emotion. There was the small hope that despite a losing season we might be able to pull out a tournament win. There was the lingering sadness that this was somehow a rite of passage, a marking of time, an end of an era in my son’s life. Then there was the chaos—questionable calls, angry parents, upset umps and, most of all, embarrassingly bad attitudes. The joy of seeing the boys receive their second-place trophies was somewhat tainted by the atmosphere in which the game had been played.
So, after hitting and throwing in the backyard while waiting for Sunday lunch, the kids had all converged on the house for Pa’s homemade ice cream and started begging to go to a “real” field. The adults—most of us at least—were reluctant. We were quite content sitting in the shade, bellies full and feet kicked back. But they were persistent, and the Dads seemed to be leaning in that direction too. So, we gave in and loaded up—two minivans and two pickup trucks full.
We had barely pulled up to the small field when they all started piling out. They hit the dirt running. The group was quickly divided into teams. The oldest boys gathered in the dugout talking strategy. The Dads, one of my sisters, and all the little ones took the field. Ma, my other sister, and I set up chairs in the shade of the closed concession stand and morphed into what my Grandmother would have justly called the “Peanut Gallery.” We served as umpires, coaches, spectators, commentators and cheerleaders all in one. We quickly named the teams—the Youngbloods versus the Moses and the Midgets!
Play Ball!
In all fairness, it wasn’t much of a game. The Youngbloods, even as they held back their real steam, quickly took the lead. By the second inning it was 12 to 0. We pretty much lost count in the third. That’s when the umps made an official decision to end the inning if the Moses and the Midgets could even manage one out. They rallied back on a double play though and decided that “enough was enough” when they came in to bat. The officials made some adjustments to the rules and begged the grown men not to hit it too hard. From now on though the midgets counted for runs but not outs.
The Youngbloods weren’t thrilled with the new rules, but you didn’t hear much complaint. In fact, we spectators even noticed what appeared to be a few intentional drops of the ball. Of course, the pitchers didn’t always like the calls, which were inconsistent at best. The umps were a little biased toward the old guys. But as the game continued, the Dads began to score. The midgets stomped on the bag as they crossed home plate!
The game had some interesting moments. Dirt was flying as one thirty-something-year-old slid head first into second. The Youngbloods—one in crocs and one still in his Sunday dress shirt—were filthy as the five of them dove and slid around the field. Pa missed a couple in left field. Aunt Marsha kept backing out of the box and blaming the holes on the field for the fact that she couldn’t make it to first. Two of the midgets sat down in the outfield for a good part of the fourth inning, and the Youngbloods kept switching up their pitchers. Cheers and taunts rang across the field.
“I thought you said Aunt Marsha was a fast runner.”
“If you think you can do it better, get out here!”
“That was a terrible call!”
“One more comment out of you, old man, and you’re outta here!”
In the only tense moment of the game, the youngest of the Youngbloods took a blow to the back from a wild throw from first. There were gasps and sighs. Ma closed her eyes, but he shook it off and finished the game with style amid claps and cheers. The umps called the game when they began to worry that all the elderly members of the Moses team were going to fall out from cramps or wheezing. We all spent a few moments picking up trash before heading back to the grandparents’ house for icy sticks and more dessert. We couldn’t really tell you the final score.
I remember at one point looking out over the dusty field, listening to all the whooping and hollering and good-natured cutting up and thinking about that game. There was no smell of hotdogs lingering in the air. You could barely see the white lines on the field. There were no sharp uniforms, no official umps, not even enough players to cover all the bags. There was no national anthem, Little League pledge, scoreboard, scorekeeper, or pitch counter, not even a trophy to be earned, not much that would resemble what we have come to think of in the way of baseball. But, it sure was a lot of fun.
There is an unanswered question in our house—Will there be baseball in heaven? Somehow, I can’t help but think that if there is then this is the way it will be played, and you know what? When I think back to the end of my son’s little league career, this is the game I will remember.
Part Two: April 21, 2020
Eight boys and one girl. That’s the headcount of Carter grandchildren. Every single one of them played at least one sport, but all of them (the girl included) played baseball for at least a season or two.
The Carter family got used to being at the ballpark—a lot.
And while we might have complained about rushing to and from practices and games, eating out of picnic baskets or concession stands, and enduring every type of weather from snow to scorching sun, honestly, we wouldn’t have changed a thing. Memories are made at ballparks, the kind of memories that are still recapped play-by-play around campfires during the summer, the kind of memories that are still laughed about around the dinner table, the kind of memories that raise our blood pressure but fill our hearts with joy.
But, on Wednesday, March 11, memory-making at the ball field came to an end. That evening was the last baseball game that we will watch for a while.
This year, my nephew, Quinton, is a senior. After playing for the Westmoreland Eagles since 7th grade, he started his final season the week that the COVID-19 news began to hit the fan. After only two games, it came to a screeching halt.
It’s heart-breaking to think about. Quinton and his fellow teammates, some who have worked their entire high school careers to finally start for their team, will not have their last season of baseball. They will not have a senior night. They will not experience the joy and sadness of celebrating a last game with the young men they have played with for so many years.
Quinton Crawford, #6
It's
just
over.
And, it hurts.
You see, my family, we don’t love baseball for the sake of baseball. We love baseball when our kids are playing. We love watching them work towards something and get better at it. We love seeing them swing for the fences and cheering for them when they do. We love watching them catch and throw and run and high-five their buddies. It’s not so much that we love the game; we just love watching them play the game.
Quinton’s last season was a last for all of us—for his mom and dad, for his grandparents, for his aunts, uncles, and cousins. So, we hurt for him. Quinton was the last remaining baseball player of the Carter grandchildren, and we wanted him to go out in style. But things didn’t quite work out that way.
Or did they?
When schools started closing and games started being cancelled, the hometown paper, the Westmoreland News, called some of the players to ask them how they felt. This was my nephew’s reply.
“I feel bad for my teammates and the senior class because they’ve really worked hard this year, but in the great scheme of life, there are more important things, like a person getting saved by the blood of the Lamb. So, even if one should get saved through all of this, it will be worth it, all that God brought upon our nation, for His glory and honor.”
Quinton, like all of us, isn’t perfect, but he definitely has his act together. And his act has nothing to do with baseball. His attitude was convicting to me. This virus has upset his world, but he keeps things in a right perspective. He knows what is most important. He understands what is really at stake.
It's about so much more than baseball
or the economy
or our health
or, well, anything for that matter.
“If one should get saved through all of this, it will be worth it.”
Will there be baseball in heaven? I really hope there is. I hope once again to watch our kids run onto the field and stomp across the bags. I hope that they pitch and catch and sling bats and dirt. I hope they slide into home and get muddy and laugh while they lovingly egg each other on. And I hope I can sit and watch and cheer for them while eating nachos and drinking a soda from the concession stands.
Until then, I look forward to watching the next generation pick up their bats and gloves. And, when I think back to the end of the Carter Clan’s baseball career, this is what I will remember.
I will remember my handsome young nephew in his #6 uniform, baseball cap on his head, and baseball cleats on his feet, laying his bat and his glove at the feet of Jesus.