As Is Bent the Twig

It's interesting to me how we revisit our parents upon our children, accidentally and incidentally. I was stopping the other day at the local grocery whose name is the non-gerund form of that word plus shop. 

I don't circle the parking lot looking for a spot but we all know people like that. They always make me smile. If they have a passenger I'll bet they're tempted to have them get out and stand in front of the sliding doors holding them wide open to see if the vehicle will pass through them into the store. That would be cool, would it not?

A million years ago there was an automat at the U-Bahn haltestelle at Eschenheimer Tor in Frankfurt that was very popular with a certain crowd after hours.They'd (almost typed we'd) feed it all of their kleine geld and buy candy bars and crisps nearly as much for the delight of watching the mechanical arm swoop down and grab teach item to then drop it into the dispensing drawer as out of any form of hunger. 

Anyway, back at the lot. A mom and a small child of three, maybe four, I'm not sure (I used to be an expert on small children, being in the biz and having two myself and all, but those days are decades ago) but I think he was a boy, were heading towards the entrance. The mom was going over in her head her grocery list while he was skittering to keep up with her. 

Our moms did that to us. Holding the child's left hand with their right hand, however, due to manufacturing difficulties, the child's hand and arm come just barely to the top of his head while Mom's hand and arm reach only to mid-thigh so one of the two is on tiptoes at high speed where ever we go. We know which one right?

I hailed the woman and pushed a cart from the corral towards her and offered it to her for the child. She glared for just a moment and then relented as she picked him up and put him in the seat and, I watched, buckled him in. 

In twenty years when you see a young man walking down the street NOT dragging his left hand on the ground because it's feet longer than his right arm, that's the toddler I helped out yesterday. Go ahead and wave, you'll marvel at how easily he can wave back.

As the Twig Is Bent

As school-age children across the USA start to reconcile themselves to the inevitability that the next academic year is beginning (for some) in a matter of days if they've not yet started back, I feel compelled to note, in the interests of good sportsmanship and fair play, the boys of summer (subject to the rules and interpretations of the respective national governing boards) are a weekend away from crowning the next Little League World Series Champion. 

Here's this weekend's schedule, so grab some couch as two teams will grab some pine after the games today leaving only two to tango on the morrow. In a world where we pay grown men (and some women) wages that approximate the gross national product of some Third-World nations to participate professionally in a sport our children play for free, there is something about the joy and exhilaration of this annual competition in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, that I find a tonic for the soul. 

The enthusiasm and engagement of the television announcers, some of whom as youngsters, played on these same fields in pursuit of a championship, is contagious and inspiring. If you can listen to the Little League Pledge, almost as old as I am, or even just read it, and not get goosebumps, don't bother checking your pulse, call your coroner, as you're no longer among the living. 

All you can be is reminded and refreshed about why you choose to follow baseball. Why, in an era of a dozen other sports all grabbing more headlines and worldwide attention, the simple beauty of a contest that, at its most basic, involves striking a small leather-bound and round spheroid with a stick, be it wood, metal or some kind of composite and doing it better than a like number of others attempting to do the same on the other team. 

For a few days, eleven-year-olds  have served as role models for grown men, for which I am grateful (and wonder where we can get battalions and boatloads more). An entire team, who've just been white-washed and whose run to the Series has ended prematurely and with a drubbing no one would wish on anyone else, stand one behind the other along the first and third baselines after the final out and shake the hands of the team sending them home and tell them 'good game' and really mean it, because the Little League World Series isn't just about baseball, it's about life, as it should be lived. 

"... I will play fair.
And strive to win.
But win or lose, 
I will always do my best." 
Somehow, it's always better than good enough. 
-bill kenny