Seeing through different eyes

Being a grandfather provides a fresh, but not always new, perspective

One of the interesting aspects of being a grandfather is having a front-row seat to events and circumstances I saw 20 to 30 years ago when raising children, or even longer ago when I was a child myself. It’s remarkable how history repeats itself.

Playing ball and following proper decorum

One of these areas in which this happens is children’s sports. My two seven-year-old grandsons, first cousins to each other, have each played baseball and basketball and I have enjoyed going to some of their games.

Now, if I wanted to do so, I could be a scene-making granddad. I could berate officials who make questionable calls, and I could certainly help the coaches because they might not always understand and appreciate the capabilities of whatever grandson of mine happens to be playing on their team.

Would it be so wrong of me to suggest to a coach that he put my grandson in during a pivotal time in the game or play him in a position where he is best suited? Or suggest that a particular coaching technique does not speak to the child being addressed?

No need to answer, as I have already worked it out. As a drop-in observer and not one who lives in the community and regularly interacts with these people, I will keep my opinions to myself, whether verbally or through my body language.

To the parents of my grandchildren, I humbly say, “you’re welcome.”

Game time

Right now, grandson Hank in Atlanta is playing baseball. On a recent weekend when his parents were out of town, Susan and I were on duty with Hank and his four-year-old sister Ruthie.

On that Sunday afternoon, Hank’s baseball team had a scrimmage game with another team, meaning they were to play a game, but it did not count toward the tally of wins and losses for either team. A practice game if you will. They would also be having team pictures made that afternoon.

Practice or not, Hank takes these things seriously and 30 minutes before departure time, we were getting him into his uniform and making sure he had everything he needed.

This scrimmage was at his team’s home field, a ten-minute drive from his house, give or take.

So, I did not have far to drive to get Hank there. But given his firm belief that if one is not early, one is late (and the fact he was justifiably uncertain I knew how to get him there and we should build in some time for possible wrong turns), I loaded him up in plenty of time and arrived at the field about 15 minutes before warmups were to begin.

I took my own folding chair, as grandfathers do, and stationed myself in a shady area. I showed Hank where I would be if he were to need me.

Thinking I would enjoy my time with a book before the game began, I immediately became engrossed with my surroundings, watching and listening to the young players, their parents and grandparents (who were also sitting in folding chairs) around me.

Moms were making sure their guys had every uniform part correctly positioned with the correctly colored hat and belt since pictures were being taken. (I might add, Hank’s grandmother and I had taken care of this before we left the house, carefully following instructions left with us by his parents, and Hank’s uniform was one hundred percent intact.)

Dads were giving last-minute playing tips to their sons. Grandparents mostly observed, no doubt following the same self-imposed rules I have implemented.

The head coach soon called the boys to the field to start warming up. Hank’s team has a head coach and several assistants. Hank’s dad, my son Daniel, is one of the assistants and serves as pitcher, since this is still a coach-pitch league.

(Thankfully, nobody called on me to be Daniel’s substitute in his absence that day. When he was about Hank’s age and playing baseball, I was once asked to coach third base and after I sent two baserunners home who were promptly called out, I was reassigned to the dugout for the remainder of the game. After the game, the head coach politely suggested I should work the concession stand.)

Swings and misses

The scene that most caught my eye as I watched the boys warming up was with a boy we will call Matthew (not his real name because I can’t remember it).

Matthew was taking batting practice in the batting cage that ran parallel to the third base line of the field where the game would be played. A coach was pitching to him in the cage.

This was down a hill about 20 yards from where I was sitting. Behind me a few feet I heard a man start calling to Matthew. I looked behind me and it was obviously Matthew’s dad. He was telling Matthew, from that distance, to look at him and when Matthew looked, his dad went into a batting stance, showing Matthew how to stand and swing.

When Matthew swung his bat and hit what would have been a foul ball, his dad yelled, “No! That’s not it!”

Matthew swung again and whiffed.

At this, Matthew’s dad ran down the hill and stood outside the cage behind Matthew, barking orders at him as to how to stand and swing. Poor Matthew never hit the ball as his dad, who was becoming more and more agitated, stood there. Finally, Dad rolled his eyes, threw up his hands and walked away.

(I don’t know if Matthew’s dad played baseball himself as a child, but I strongly suspect he did.)

So much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him to give it a rest and that if he thinks his haranguing is going to make Matthew better or endear him to playing baseball, he is — pardon the pun — way off base.

But because of my firm commitment to non-interference, I made no comment to Matthew’s dad, even though I very much wanted to tell him to calm down and remember this is a seven-year-old who is swinging that bat.

Chances are very good Matthew will catch on, and if he doesn’t, well, what is the worst that can happen, other than Matthew thinking for a very long time he disappointed his dad?