When the Little League Came to Town

When I was in the fifth grade, Little League came to town. I hated it!

In the Deep South, we played baseball or softball (depending on what kind of ball we had access to) year-round. Our village didn’t have a baseball field or even a park, so we played in fields or backyards, or wherever we found space. We grabbed what we could to serve as bases —pot lids, stones, sticks, someone’s jacket. Sometimes the balls we used were questionable. But we played and had fun.

There was no adult supervision. No one directing us, telling us how it should be, or who should be the pitcher, or what we did wrong. I’m not sure we even knew the rules. But we improvised. We figured out how to deal with uneven team numbers, how to settle disputes, how to improve our playing field.

And then the day of doom!  Little League!

Even though I was the second-best player in the neighborhood, I wasn’t allowed to play because I was a girl. Condemned to watch from the sidelines, we girls mourned. Joining us on the sidelines were the boys who weren’t so good at the game. The adult supervisors only wanted the best players. Little League was a devastating blow to our neighborhood fun, so when I saw an article in The Lexington Herald-Leader (Feb 28) entitled “Kids once learned negotiating skills in sandlots,” I rejoiced. John Rosemond expressed everything I felt and then went on to review a new book, The Self-Driven Child by neuropsychologist William Stixrud. Stixrud claims that child and teen anxiety and depression are largely due to parental over involvement and micromanagement in everything from children’s social lives to their homework. I haven’t read his book, but I suspect he’d agree with what I have to say about Little League.

Nothing Like an Old-fashion Book Store!

 

 

I discovered a marvelous old-fashioned bookstore on the Alameda in San Jose, California, The Recycle Book Shop. There were none of the canned displays prominent in chain bookstores, nor the well-layed-out, equi-height shelves. No Starbucks in one corner. No stuffed animals or gewgaws for sale. Just books! Stacks of them. On the floor, on tops of shelves, on counters. People sat around on the floor dipping into the merchandise, trying out this book, or that book. It smelled like a book store, too.  Dusty jackets. Old paper. Long forgotten titles jumped out at me from the spines, along with authors’ names that I hadn’t thought of in years. There were newer titles, too, but I had the distinct feeling that every book in the store had merit. I wound up with Book Two of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Novels, and I’m already well into it.