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.