I am a 69 year old grandmother who spent a lot of time this summer watching my 7 year old grandson play baseball.
The following is an account of my experiences. What i didn't know then was how much the 7-9 year old select baseball team had to teach me.
I hope you enjoy it.
Regards,
Sally Moore

The Boys of Summer

I never thought that I would spend hours in a hot, dusty park watching seven to nine-year-olds play baseball. But that was before my grandson made the Birchmount Select Rookie baseball team.

He was playing in a house league and only 6 when asked to try out for the select team. His parents decided that it would be a good experience for him, even though, given his size and age, his chances of making it were slim. But make the team he did, becoming their youngest member.

The Birchmount team draws from East Toronto and is made up of a hodgepodge of ages, races, and economic backgrounds. They each have only one team baseball shirt, cap and pants-most with holes in the knees because they love to slide. They have no smart matching pants, tops and socks, no second uniform with reversed colours, and no coordinated equipment bags like some of their opponents. They don't have four coaches yelling at them on the field, and there is no special treatment for any of them.

What they do have is a love baseball a respect for each other both fostered by great coaching and they play the game as only the young, yet un-jaded, can - with all their hearts and souls.

Last weekend they became the Ontario Rookie Ball champions.

Throughout the summer, I watched a group of ordinary boys gel into a great baseball team. Their love of the game was their foundation, but their coaches built them into a team of destiny, a team with no "I" in at as my grandson told me.

Coach Scott, quick to pick up on a player's strengths and weaknesses, worked by encouraging, correcting and praising. Hours were spent on the basics but always with a sense of fun.

Coach Veronica, herself a fine baseball player, sacrificed playing in her own league to coach with Scott. She worked on hitting with the boys, fixing their stances, their swings, and constantly reminding them to keep their eyes on the ball.

Scott's partner Tracy was at every game to keep score, dole out water, and be the team mother. There was no captain, no stars, and no bickering. There was no jealousy, no tantrums and no pecking order. They were a team, in the truest sense of the word, and in the idealistic way we wish all our teams could be.

They praised each others' hits, catches and runs scored. They cheered hard for the big play but never failed to reassure and lift each other up after a mistake or a strike out. And in the true mark of good sportsmanship, they applauded good play by their opponents, while booing was never allowed. Their coaches set the bar high and expected their
boys to behave. Under their guidance, the team thrived.

Ultimately, they were just a group of kids who loved to play baseball for the sheer joy of getting a hit, shagging a fly ball, scoring a run or retiring the side. But most of all they loved being part of a team and knew that if they played their best, that was good enough.

And play their best they did. Against all odds, and without the obvious advantages of some of the other teams, they qualified for the finals by winning their division.

This brought them to Labour Day weekend and the Ontario finals. With only two weeks' warning, they had a hard time fielding a full team and they didn't.

Most families had made vacation plans, never expecting the team to get that far. On Friday, they had only nine players to their opponents 10. They won.

By Saturday morning they still had only nine, but by noon they were up to 10. It was a tough game and the team dedicated the final two innings to Max and Owen, two teammates who couldn't be there. They won.

By Sunday morning, Max was back and now the team could rotate one player. Two had bandaged knees but they kept playing. They lost. They congratulated the winners and gave each of them a high five.

Each team was allowed one loss, so the boys still had a chance. The coaches talked quietly to them and sent them off to the park and lunch.

An hour before the next game they were all back ready to win, and win they did.

By Sunday afternoon, the team had made the finals. My grandson wasn't there; he was on a long-planned family holiday in Nova Scotia, but I was there to cheer on his team and call him and give him the play-by-play.

There was a sign put up by the coaches over the bench: "We miss you Owen, #7."

Each of his teammates talked to him that afternoon on my cell phone telling him they missed him and wished he was there. So did I.

Tired and sore, and playing their third game of the day, they dug deep and played their hearts out. They won it in the bottom of the last inning, 15-14.

The Boys of Birchmount, with great heart and holes in their pants, are the new Ontario champions. Owen is too-the coaches had him on the roster. He helped them get there and he was there in spirit. He too will get his gold medal, trophy and ring. And on his front door, I put the sign that was over the bench all day.

But more than the champs, they are a team, a team that played every moment with generous spirits and hearts full of joy, a team that valued good sportsmanship and trying your hardest. They are a team that maybe can only exist with the innocence and purity of 7 to 9 year old hearts, a team that lived and played in the moment and a team that reminds us all what's important about sports and maybe about life too.