I was reminded of this last night, when my nephew’s Little League team had their end-of-the-season party, hosted by my big brother, the team’s head coach.
The cool thing: Brandon Bass of the LA Clippers was there. (His son plays on the team.) The risky thing: being around a dozen pent-up nine-year-olds. (They were eliminated one game shy of the finals.)
It was on. Cornhole bags whipped so hard, you could see dust flying out of them as they pegged each guy in the chest. Wooden golf clubs became weaponized. (One kid hit his four-year-old sister in the head on his back-swing.)
But for all their recklessness, I will honestly miss these idiots. I’ll miss bribing them with gum to get on base. Or offering cash to any player who actually knew the game’s score. Or insisting to all of them I’d bet on the other team.
On the bright side, out here in California, baseball is a year-round sport, so hopefully a summer league will be kicking in soon, and we’ll get to do it all over again. Only this time we’ll require batting helmets at the party.