Play ball! Two words that ring out across America this time of year. Accordingly, it was with great anticipation that I sped to Florida for spring break last week. To perhaps catch a Dodgers’ spring training game a couple miles from my parents’ home in Vero Beach? Naw, nothing that ordinary.

I’m talking big. Really big — such as my granddaughter Maddie’s first T-ball game. Of course, I slipped into town a couple days in advance of the season opener, not wanting to deprive Maddie of my invaluable expertise in helping her to prepare for her diamond debut.

So, my favorite five-year old and I hit the back yard about 10 minutes after we hurriedly unloaded the car. Maddie already sported all the mandatory equipment — glove (although stiff and unoiled), aluminum bat, and designer pink batting helmet and matching batbag. I put the ball on the tee and told Maddie to take her stance. To be gut-level honest, hers wasn’t exactly what you’d call an athletic position.

“Crouch down a bit, baby,” I eagerly coached. “You need to get accustomed to limiting your strike zone for when you play fast-pitch. Also, get your bat back more, and level your shoulders a little bit, too. Transfer your weight when you swing. Keep your head in, and above all, don’t take your eye off the ball.”

Well, poor Maddie just looked up at her old Pop-Pop, kind of tilted her little blond head to one side, and squinted. Translation — what in the world have you been smoking, Pop-Pop?

Shrugging off my overly technical tutelage, Maddie started ripping line drives like a greased bazooka. Well, maybe nothing that prolific, but at least we cured her whiffs after a few swings. Next we started working on running to first. Manna, a.k.a. Grandma Claudia (my wife), volunteered to play first base. I manned the pitcher’s mound.

Whack! Maddie nailed a slow dribbler back to the box, which I handled like Chipper Jones warmed-over. I whirled and tossed the ball to first, just barely nipping my hard-charging granddaughter.

“You’re out!” I ruled.

Well, you would have just thought that the doggone world had come to an abrupt end. The Dutch Boy and his fattest finger couldn’t have fended off Maddie’s onslaught of tears.

“But I don’t want to be out, Pop-Pop,” Maddie boo-hooed.

“But, baby doll, everybody gets out now and then,” I explained.

“But I don’t want to be out,” Maddie reiterated, still sobbing. “Out makes me sad, Pop-Pop.”

“Now, Maddie, darling, you’ll just have to understand,” I lightly admonished. “You can’t always be safe. It’s just part of the game, sweetie.”

“But, Pop-Pop, playing games are supposed to make you happy,” Maddie reasoned.

“Uh, er, that’s right, Maddie, but …”

“You lose, Pop-Pop,” Grandma Claudia interjected.

“Now, see here, Claudia,” I protested, “I have to get this child to understand …”

“Since when did you win an argument with an Elliott woman?” Claudia jabbed. “You’re out, Coach.”

Whipped, as usual, I could not help but reflect upon another “Great American Pastime,” one that’s been unfolding long before 1839 when Abner Doubleday allegedly invented baseball in Cooperstown, N.Y. You know what they say, — good pitching usually beats good hitting, and I always was a sucker for Claudia’s curves.



POSTSCRIPT — My feeble attempt at coaching gratefully didn’t deter Maddie from enjoying a terrific first game. And my precious little second baseman was absolutely right as it turned out. Not a single player was called “out” in the contest. Every child got to bat three times and run the bases. The game ended in a tie, probably something like 85 to 85. The kids high-fived each other at the end, boasting ear-to-ear smiles, then skipped smartly for the snow cone stand.

It was a wonderful day at the ole ballpark that God had made, and there would be enough time somewhere down the road for Maddie and her fellow angels to be “out.”



Dr. Scott Elliott is president of Meridian Community College. E-mail him at

selliott@mcc.cc.ms.us.