BY JOELLEN COLLINS
Recently, I was able to be involved in something that reminded me of the values and aspirations associated with the America of my childhood. I spent some time observing the annual San Francisco Little League opening ceremonies at Kezar Stadium in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, the playground of my early life.
I went for the pleasure of seeing my granddaughter start another year of baseball, the only girl on her team in that age bracket. Last year they won the San Francisco championship, and the celebratory photos show one blond pony-tailed girl amidst the cheering boys. “That’s my girl!” I thought, carrying on the love of this sport, part of her grandma Bibi’s childhood and adult family devotions.
I have written before how my uncle Doc used to take me to see the Hollywood Stars, where I developed a crush on a renowned base stealer, Carlos Bernier. I have an old photo of my attendance (taken just two days before the birth of our first daughter) at my husband’s Entertainment League game (with teammates like Bobby Darrin), and the broad smile on my face. It was such fun to be able to “root” for my shortstop partner. He continued to participate in softball leagues for many years. I still love baseball, though my loyalties have shifted in the second half of my life spent in Idaho.
What was special about this last event was not only the anticipation of being able to “root” again for a favored team, but the overwhelming appearance of hundreds of kids—toddlers to teenagers—all proudly wearing fresh uniforms and marching together around the former football stadium. It was a heartrending spectacle, symbolic of wholesome activities outdoors. The excitement was obvious, but also the grand mixture of kids of all sizes, colors, neighborhoods, and incomes. Sometimes lately I have to put aside my rose-colored glasses because of the fearsome hatred, evidence of falsehoods, and the difficulty of discussing politics. But here, on a sunny (though cool) day, the panorama of bright yellows, reds, blues and greens in uniforms on smiling kids with proud parents was reassuring. I know there are cranky Little League parents and some signs of poor sportsmanship, but mainly this is a time for kids to cheer each other on, say “It’s O.K.” to a fellow player who just struck out, and to absorb the truth (though tough sometimes) of knowing that there will be another chance to shine even if a foul is called.
In short, seeing this generation playing our “All American Sport” somehow makes me feel optimistic that these children will survive the stresses of our current world, that they will learn to practice tolerance, acceptance, and empathy for even those not on their particular teams. At least, I can, if even briefly, sense the promise of the America I’ve seen in both heroic and shameful times. Perhaps getting to first base is still a goal that we can treasure, with a cheer and a smile.