Sometimes simple is just right

Hot Flashes


FIELD OF DREAMS—Columnist Elizabeth Kirby snapped this precious photo of her grandson at one of his baseball games. She tries not to miss the games, she says,“because I get the real thing on these simple fields.”

FIELD OF DREAMS—Columnist Elizabeth Kirby snapped this precious photo of her grandson at one of his baseball games. She tries not to miss the games, she says,“because I get the real thing on these simple fields.”

I’ve learned a few things on the baseball field this year trying to keep up with the babyfaced grandkids. Maybe you’ve traipsed around a few ball fields taking notes, too. How’s that hot dog addiction going, by the way?

Anyway, not talkin’ dogs or Dodger Stadium, because I prefer the cool leagues, the “little” ones. You know, the ones where you bring your own chair or risk developing a case of bleacher butt.

I try not to miss too many games, because I get the real thing on these simple fields. No organ. No gourmet hot dogs with shallots and capers. No funky walkup music. A PA system that cuts out in the middle of the National Anthem. Lousy parking if your car was just washed.

On these fields, there are no bonus babies or baby-mamas. They’re too young for tattoos and too old for sippy cups. Stealing the words from that great philosopher, Goldilocks, they’re just right.

Makes me think about an English teacher who demanded that we “boil it down.” And “don’t clutter it up,” she’d holler. “Cut to the chase,” she’d scribble on our papers.

If I apply her writing rules to life on a kid’s ball field, I guess you could say I finally caught what she was throwin.’

And I thought about it on a miserably hot, dusty day in June, the kind when body parts decide to stick to other body parts even though you just slathered with Dove. I stroll toward a ball field cluttered with grimy backpacks, coolers wrapped in duct tape, bratty little brothers begging for Icees, sacks of stuff from Trader Joe’s and a slew of gnarly relatives, all self-anointed experts on the game of baseball.

Beyond the chaos, I scan the field for the reason.

There it is. There they are. Two teams of kids. All shapes and

 

 

sizes hoping that the snack shack won’t run out of their favorite flavor of Otter Pops. Oh, and there are some coaches who look like they could use a little aromatherapy or biofeedback. But enough on them.

Because the kids are all smiling. And very busy as they gear up thanks to the good work of Dick’s Sporting Goods and Amazon Prime.

Behind the masks and the armor, the mitts and the gloves, they’re still baby bobbleheads, stuffed under ballcaps protecting tender little faces. Look at them. Delicate and fresh. Just like the sprouts of grass fighting to survive the pounding of their mighty cleats.

The coaches start to chant. “Ya gotta work together!” and “You can do this!”

Of course they can, I think. Then I sink my sloppy body into my chair, knowing I’m glad they can “do it” because I sure as heck can’t. They look like pros out there, like they were born with bats in their paws, but at night, they are just kids. Yup, kids who still sleep with their blankies and are hooked on a good bedtime story. And triple-check to make sure there are no monsters under the Dodger duvet with matching dust ruffle.

So I take the lens cap off my camera while wondering if I’ll ever get this ball-field grit out of my teeth. I swear its shelf life is longer than a Twinkie’s.

Then I start to meander because I gotta catch “the shot.” I couldn’t catch a fly ball to save my life, but I got “the shot.”

And discovered that while I’ve taken myself out to the ballgame, I think the ballgame has taken me.

Just the little ones.

Elizabeth Kirby has been a resident of Thousand Oaks since 1983. Reach her at kirby@theacorn.com or kirby.hanson@verizon.net. To read all her columns, check out her Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/#!/ elizabethkirbyandhotflashes.

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