ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, November 21, 1996 TAG: 9611210069
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-11 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SUSIE FETTER
I READ in the newspaper a few weeks ago that 75 teams in the area had competed in a Sandlot Football Super Bowl. Sandlot Super Bowl? Have I missed something? I always thought that sandlot ball was the kind of game kids play wherever they can find a vacant lot, park or dead-end street - without the intervention of grown-ups.
And yet, I read that kids equipped with helmets, shoulder pads and uniforms are organized into a sandlot league?
Lest you think I am being critical of the admirable efforts of adults to provide wholesome activity for youngsters, let me explain. I have become resigned to the packaging and marketing of party games we used to play with mere paper and pencil. I accept the proliferation of organized activities for kids that are capable of occupying every spare minute of their free time. I acknowledge the value of providing opportunities for children to develop their talents and to experience the pleasures of social bonding. But must we co-opt the name that describes one of the few spontaneous activities surviving in our over-programmed world?
The sandlots in my childhood were a neighbor's yard that had been converted from victory garden to grass, or the field of a nearby high school. Home plate and bases were patches worn to the ground. We played softball or ten-up if we didn't have enough kids for two sides. The games were cooked up after school in spring and fall, and in the long summer evenings after supper. We didn't have gloves, and I remember many a bruised knuckle when a fly ball came smack down on my outstretched fingers instead of my palms.
We were a motley crew ranging in age from 9 to 15, girls as well as boys. In fact, my pal Joyce was one of the first chosen, for she could connect her Louisville slugger with a softball for many a home run. If a little kid was at bat, the pitcher moved up, threw a real slow ball, and took plenty of time to toss the hit to first base. Joyce was not so lucky - she got the old speed ball. Insults were hurled along with the ball: "easy out!" - as well as those not suitable for a family newspaper.
We modified the rules depending on who was playing and played until we felt like stopping. Occasionally, one of the players would quit in midgame in tears and stomp home, only to return the next day with renewed enthusiasm. Somehow, we were able to work out the rules, smooth hurt feelings and have a great time - all without the supervision of adults.
For our son it was football. We lived about a block from an undeveloped urban park with a stream and rather rough field that the city mowed more or less regularly. A critical mass of males in the neighborhood provided enough players for a decent game. Girls may have been tolerated by this bunch on occasion, but it was a pretty macho crowd. It was a bit painful to watch the rag-tag teams tackle one another by yanking at clothing and defy all efforts of the mature 12-year-old who carried the plays written on a card in his hip pocket. "All right, men," he would shout, "let's shape up."
It took three years of wrangling to work out the rules and to "shape up" the way their leader wanted. And we parents hung back and let them struggle. Was there disorganization and inefficiency? Yes. Did the players have protective gear and uniforms? No. Were the boys occasionally cruel and unsportsmanlike? Yes. Did they have fun? You bet! Meanwhile, the parents only had to cope with filthy clothing or grumbling about some dumb kids and a rotten game. No carpooling, no juggling of schedules, and dinner at a civilized hour.
So, what to do about the Sandlot Super Bowl? Kudos to all those who volunteer expertise and time to organize the games and coach the teams. Kudos to the kids who throw themselves into the games with energy and enthusiasm. Kudos especially to the girls who have braved ridicule and rejection to join up and play as equals with the boys. But how about finding another name and leaving the name "sandlot" to those wonderfully informal, semi-chaotic games kids of all ages play whenever they can round up enough players?
Susie Fetter of Roanoke played sandlot softball in northeast Pennsylvania; her son, sandlot football in Baltimore.
LENGTH: Medium: 74 linesby CNB