Fans across the nation unify in one loud, off-key rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” in celebration of America’s favorite pasttime, baseball. I can’t remember a summer passing that didn’t include baseball. The soft thud of a ball trapped in a leather mitt and the metallic ping from the collision of the ball and bat were the soundtrack of my summers. From backyard pick-up and church little league games to family excursions at major league games, baseball filled lazy summer days.
For me, baseball and community are synonymous. Backyard baseball games included all the kids we could gather in our small, downtown Independence community. The group of eight to twenty of us trooped half a block down to McCoy park’s ball diamond on hot, Missouri summer afternoons. The older boys would carry the ball bags filled with metal bats, extra balls, and a variety of old, worn-out gloves. Everyone else carried water, sandwiches, and sunflower seeds. Once at the field, the water and sandwiches were stored in the shade of a large oak tree and forgotten until lunch. We ran to the field, ready to start the game. We never really picked teams—we simply divided ourselves by family and street. No one was incredibly talented, so the teams came out pretty even. What we lacked in talent, though, we made up for in spirit.
Both the infield and outfield lacked players and few of us could throw the ball from the outfield to the pitcher (in fact, few of us could throw the ball with accuracy, let alone distance). My older brother, Jarid, usually pitched for both teams, as he was the only kid in the neighborhood who could get the ball over the plate. To speed up the game, he volunteered Craig or I to run home and drag our t-ball stand to the field. I struggled to carry the black, rubber stand the half-block to the park, but I didn’t complain. The stand doubled my chances of sending a line drive out to the right of centerfield with moderate accuracy. Games ended with the shrill blast of Mom’s silver whistle calling us home.
At home, my brothers and I continued to practice and improve our baseball skills. Dad led us to the private ally or up to the vacant lot and threw balls to us. By the time I was eight, I caught grounders, pop-flies, and line drives with moderate accuracy—the boys well exceeded me in skill, but they never minded that I tagged along. Dad taught me to love baseball and I despised anyone who told me that baseball was only for boys.
Dad coached one of our church’s little league teams from the time I was six until I was fourteen. I spent June to August at the baseball complex with Dad’s team. Throughout the years, Dad coached both of my brothers from t-ball, into coach’s pitch, and finally into fast pitch ball.
Baseball, for the Lawsons, was a family affair. Dad coached, Mom was the statistician, Craig and Jarid played, and Crystal and I kept the boys hydrated and prepared. In late May, we met with our new teammates as Mom and Dad handed out jerseys. The boys crowed around the table as they were handed white knickers and a jersey, hat, and socks of matching colors. Each boy ran to change as soon as he received his uniform—even Crystal and I dressed as part of the team. Dad taught us from the beginning that the team was our family and our family was a team. We did everything together, even baseball.
While Dad taught the boys the simple mechanics of baseball, he taught me to love and serve those around me. Tri-City Baseball League was an outreach program. Pastors and church members ran and coached the league, but the focus was to reach the community. While other coaches stacked their teams with talented ball players from secular leagues, Dad requested his team be built around boys from single-parent homes.
While our teams included three to five church members, boys from the community created our core. While he wanted to win (and had a winning record throughout his years as a coach), Dad desired to be a role model to the young men on his team.
Our team was our family. As much as I loved watching the games, I looked forward to spending time with the boys and their families off the field. Practices and games always extended into picnic lunches. The church families enjoyed the fellowship, but the single-mothers relished in the relaxing free-time and watched their sons interact with the fathers of the other boys. I smiled to myself as I watched Dad interact with his team. His action proclaimed one truth: life isn’t about baseball, it’s about impacting others.
I still love going to baseball games—especially when one of my brothers are playing. I spend most of the game on my feet, cheering on my favorite team with a cap on my head and a Pepsi in hand. But don’t be deceived—as much as I love watching the game, I go to the games for the atmosphere. Moms overlook their son’s errors, dads critique every play, fanatical fans disagree with every call, and teenage sisters ignore the game while they socialize with friends.
Baseball is community—people interacting and impacting each other.
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