.... where family is the source of humor!

Who Taught Whom a Lesson? by Carol Wells

Lazy hazy days of summer are ebbing away to the sounds of school buses once more rumbling up and down the streets. Amazing how quickly those three short months pass by - but, my oh my, the opportunities those days hold for chidlren to create memories to look back upon as adults. Robert shares a humorous essay about his youth and baseball for readers of Humor Is Relative to enjoy!

Disorganized sports were the mainstay of my youth. It was almost always more fun to pick captains, have them do a little 'once twice three shoot', and let the skill hierarchy rule the choosing of teams; no adults, no umps, and rarely any fights. Whether it was touch football, basketball, two-a-cat baseball, capture the flag, it didn't matter. We managed to figure it out and have fun.

I started to notice problems when little league came along. It was well organized with a draft, uniforms, schedule, travel, all-star team, blah-blah-blah. And it struck me that the more organized an activity became, the less fun it was to play--more competitive and seemingly more important but clearly less enjoyable.

Maybe a better way to think about it is that I didn't mind competition as long as laughs were still in the mix. Unfortunately, the fun was replaced by "make fun" as in make fun of some poor kid who just swung the bat at a ball that was pitched yesterday. So I quit little league baseball, probably prematurely, but I was getting sick from worrying about making a crucial error that would lose a game. Nothin' for nothin' but whoever came up with the cockamamie notion "a team wins together and a team loses together" or that other beaut "no one is bigger than the team", never played little league. A team wins because the best player pitched lights out and hit four home runs. A team loses because the worst player played shortstop. This fear I had was something that never occurred to me in a pick up game. 'Win-Shmin', who cared?

Having said all that, there was one loosely supervised game in my town that transcended both organized and disorganized sports. It was in a league of its own and it was fantastic. It was Band Box Baseball ...

"Okay, I want you to count off by four!" Mr. Fitz barked, with a small Louisville Slugger resting on his shoulder, pigeon toed in his old motley black Keds sneakers, still wearing his work slacks, and a pale blue pull-over golf shirt with a fresh Chef Boyardee stain. Frankly, the shirt had seen better days and a smaller waist line.

He was addressing a line of fifty eager faces, t-shirts dirtied, ragged long-legged jeans torn, and ratty PF Flyers worn smooth by hours of play on the hard-top streets and playgrounds. Some were tall. Some were short. Some were wide. Some were narrow. It resembled a police suspect line-up for a bazooka bubblegum heist. There was a buzz in the air as the kids commiserated, trying to anticipate the count so they could play on the same team as their buddies or with Rye Bread Russell, bartering for position, making empty deals.

The ritual count-off alone was worth the price of admission. Mr. Fitz gripped the junior sized bat, practicing his tee-shot, as he followed the count down the line, only stopping to point at kids unable to eek out their number correctly. For the time being, he was the Drill Sergeant and the kids were his recruits. The counting started. The kids revealed their individuality as they belted out their numbers.

"One!"

"Twoooo... "

"Tree."

"Fo-werrr."

"UNO!"

"Two!"

And on down the line the counting continued.

"Three."

"Me Four."

"Five."

"Hey, he said 'five' Mr. Fitz!" my brother Doug, a stickler for procedures and rules, instantly complained.

The count, however, continued on like a runaway train.

"One!"

"Two, two got to pooh!" A chorus of laughs and giggles bellowed out from the older boys.

"Hey Mr. Fitz! Moon said 'five'! He said 'five'!" Doug escalated his displeasure.

Mr. Fitz interrupted, stopping the count dead in its tracks.

"Okay! Okay! That will be enough of the poetry Mr. Cruiser! Next one who feels like they have to be a comedian can laugh all the way home!"

He had a way of squelching idiocy before it became reckless. He hunted down Moon Muller, the object of Doug's objection.

"Mr. Muller, pay attention. You aren't FIVE! You are ONE!" Mr. Fitz, using the bat, pointed at the next kid in line.

"Okay. Pick it up from there."

"One," the next kid yells incorrectly.

"No, he's ONE, you're TWO. Come on guys! Let's listen up and pay attention. We'll do this all night long if we have to. I know your parents won't mind. They might even get a full night's sleep without you guys around for a night." He was a master, as he milked the parents sitting along the wall for a few laughs and barbs.

"You can keep mine, Joe!" one slightly inebriated father yelled out. Mr. Fitz smiled back.

He pointed to the next kid to speak his number.

"Three?" the kid asked timidly.

Mr. Fitz nodded his approval. The kid for some unexplainable reason pinched his groin and started hopping around in circles like the Holy Spirit filled him or something.

The essence of nostalgia is an awareness that what has been will never be again.
-- Milton S. Eisenhower The Wine Is Better

Humor Is Relative thanks Cay Dickson, from the Houston Chronicle, for the compliment!

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.
-- Plato

Think you have a witty story about your family, or moment being a parent, that our readers will enjoy? Review Humor Is Relative submissions guidelines and submit your story! Who knows, we just may like it!

Sports do not build character. They reveal it.
-- Heywood Hale Broun

Meet Humor Is Relative's contributing writers!

Knowledge cannot make us all leaders, but it can help us decide which leader to follow.
-- Management Digest