The Boys of Summer - Some Good, Some Bad

by Tom Edwards

Baseball fans have seen some stellar play while recently observing the Little League World Series. Even when it wasn't exactly stellar, it was always inspired and entertaining-- which is more that can be said for the grown up boys of summer.

The kiddies outclass the men in many respects, and they do it for nothing, zilch, nada, absolutely zero, a big fat donut.

For instance, when a player strikes out in the Little League World Series, they run back to the dugout like the catcher just caught a live grenade.

In the Majors, after a bozo strikes out, he often bums a hole into the back of the umpire's skull with a glare of disgust.

A few minutes later he struts back to the dugout cussing and cursing. He then prepares to bash the Gatorade cooler with his bat. (The poor, defenseless Gatorade cooler or, if it is no longer intact for proper bashing or simply too far away-- the water fountain-- take on the brunt of many a Major league strikeout.)

If a Little Leaguer pops the ball up in the infield, they sprint around the bases in a blur. In between innings they hightail it to their respective positions.

If a Major Leaguer lofts a tall, lazy can of com, you might see a gingerly trot or a loping saunter. In between innings to their positions: Simple lolly gagging.

In the LLWS, the games move at a pace of a cheetah. The pitchers pitch the ball as soon as they catch it like they're double parked outside of a State Highway Patrol convention.

Games gallop along so quickly that a typical nitrate-loving fan has to be careful when purchasing a hot dog because the game might be history before they can get the mystery meat down the hatch in a timely manner without getting a weenie stuck in their whistle.

In the Majors, the games move like a three-toed sloth wading through a tar pit. Stepping into a Major League stadium is like tumbling into a time fold worthy of 'The Twilight Zone'.

One could sit down in the stands, listen to 'War and Peace' on tape, watch their toenails grow for a few hours, and break down their gene code and still have time to catch the last couple innin § s of a Major League epic-especially in the American League where the grounds crew has to mow the infield after the 4t inning. This allows ground balls to roll through the infield again so the loafing, underwear-picking outfielders can earn their multimillion dollar paychecks, too.

In the LLWS, the players root for each other, enthusiastically giving high fives, low fives, butt pats, and meticulously orchestrated dances of unbridled jubilation.

I even saw a team member from Harlem do a dance after hitting a home run as his mates encircled home plate. His pelvic gyrations and funkalicious gesticulations would have made even James Brown envious.

Of course, he received a savage tongue lashing from his coach for such hijinks and hot doggery, but hey, you don't travel all the way from the Big Apple to phone in a performance.

Poor sportsmanship aside, it was one heck of an interpretive home run dance-sort of like Hank Aaron meets Rick James meets Gary Coleman.

In the Majors, they don't pat each other on the rump, much less give each other a little skin after a goliath home run, a stellar piece of artistry with the leather, or even a sacrifice bunt-- a rare and valuable commodity these days.

A lot of million dollar ball players can't lay down a bunt worth a wooden nickel. Their failed bunt attempts aren't even worth a conciliatory palming of the gluteus.

In the LLWS, the players are equal in terms of compensation. No money is involved. They might receive a cold can root beer after the game.

Winning is the only currency. They play to win, to hustle on every play, to give 100%, and every other sports cliche.

Physically they're a little disparate, though. (For instance, the team from Kentucky looked like they had Sasquatch in cleats playing first base while their prepubescent shortstop looked to have been delivered fresh from the womb that morning.)

In the Majors, win or lose, they still get paid. Personal performance is what really matters. Yes, winning is nice, but a lifestyle of Ferrari's, easy women, and a mansion in the hills is much nicer.

If their team stinks the place up, the check's still in the mail. In what other profession can one fail miserably and still reap incredible compensation and benefits?

Big money has changed baseball at the highest level in profound ways. It's slowly killing it--eroding the present generation and effectively locking out the fans who want to love the sport-who want their kids to love the sport- but can't afford the demands of both the players and owners.

It's more than just a little bitter sweet to watch boys exuberantly play a game-discovering boundless joy and camaraderie- that a handful of grown men has managed to screw up.

Maybe it's up to the boys of summer to help fix things by reminding the other boys of summer just how lucky they really are.