Calling Tykes

After a run at the park, I watch half an inning of little tyke baseball.  No tee.  Svelte, tattooed dad, flat brim cap, cargo shorts, takes a knee halfway between plate and rubber.  Throws overhand as slow and accurate and kind as he can, which is to say, not kind at all.  A nugget trots to the box dragging a lime green bat, helmet off-kilter, digs in, a dust cloud sliced by mighty practice swings.

Flat brim dad looks to his dugout, a cage of mingling inattentives. A voice booms from the stands, Come on Yankees!

From a knee, he steadies the ball like a dart.

First pitch: swing and miss.

Second pitch: swing and miss.

No catcher.  No ump.  Balls dribble to the backstop, retrieved by another dad.  

Third pitch: take, seems strike three.

No one’s calling.  Good eye Caleb!

Fourth pitch: Caleb bales, bean avoided.

Balls gathered, tossed to the pitcher.

Fifth pitch: Caleb steps in the bucket, takes, seems a strike.

Swing the bat Caleb!

Sixth pitch: swing and miss, low and outside.

One out.  Come on, Yankees!  Let’s go Jax! Caleb hands over the lime green bat. Jax taps the plate twice.

Pitch one: foul tick.

Good cut Jax!

Pitch two: swing and miss.

Watch the ball, Jax!

Pitches three, four: takes, unhittable.

Good eye Jax! Jax taps the plate.

Pitch five: take, seems strike four.

Pitch six: take, down the middle, strike five.

Pitch seven: take, down the middle, strike six.

Swing Jax!

Pitch eight: in the dirt, swing and miss.

Two outs.

Let’s go Dylan! Dylan wipes and kisses the barrel of the lime green bat.

Pitch one: grounder foul, peters out shy of first.

Thataway Dylan!  Straighten it out!

Pitches two, three: swings, misses.

Three outs.

Hustle up Yankees!  Caps and gloves!  Cap Jax!  Cap!

The young dad’s glove dangles from his throwing hand as he steps across the chalkline, brim listing.  He picks up and leans maybe six bats against the fence.  Standing in front of mostly vacant bleachers, he curls his fingers through the chainlink, looks to the outfield. A little tyke in centerfield sits on his glove, facing the outfield fence, in tended lush free of dandelions. They each seem to be searching for something.