According to the Baby Birds’ Twitter, “a couple of thousand kids” showed at the game today. They were grouped by their elementary schools. Judging by their “pitch” when they yelled they were about 10 or 11 years old.
Luckily, the rain only delayed the start by 20 minutes.
The game was won by bringing home a souvenir without visiting a store.
Such are the prizes of youth.
The children screamed and shrieked: “Ball!” and “Can I have a ball, please?”
So much the worse after a player tossed one to a fan seated alongside the first base line.
Still others cried out for their gifts.
Oh, foolish hope!
A few fortunate souls received foul balls that kicked off the dirt. The first base coach tossed this manna to the crowd.
Those who received sat down in rapturous joy and bragging rights.
The others sulked, then chatted with their friends.
The innings passed quickly in a low-scoring game. Such are the seasons of life at times.
One child simply stared into the dugout with big, brown eyes.
One inning, two, three.
Eventually, a player kindly told the young soul he’d toss him a ball.
Oh, but the child had to wait until the player had a scuffed ball to give away.
Such patience is the fruit of the spirit and only gained after suffering the agitation of several Christmas mornings that never arrive earlier than December 25.
Then: a test!
If only the child won a game on the scoreboard, he might receive his prize!
The player asked the child to win the hat dance.
Simply watch the scoreboard carefully and guess – is the ball under the first, second, or third sombrero (sponsored by Mexican Villa #cheesedip)?
The child watched the tempter instead of the screen, looking forlorn.
He does not guess the correct sombrero.
Oh, such lament in those brown eyes.
“I got it right here,” the player said to me, digging the ball out of his shirt pocket. “I’ll give it to him eventually.”
“He’s just gonna give you that puppy dog look until you do it,” I said.
We laughed, for there are always tests.
Oh, what hardships await.
I thought I might wander the wilderness of this Field for photographs, but I had to see whether this child would be delivered.
He continued to stare at the player sullenly.
I callously covered my laughing face.
Several minutes later, another test!
Between innings, the team showed two highlights and asked fans to text “1” or “2” to select their favorite. The results appeared within about 30 seconds.
“Which one is gonna win,” the player asked, and pointed to the scoreboard.
The child spoke at last: “One.”
And flashed two fingers.
“Two?” the player said.
Two it was.
Two, indeed.
I stood in the photo well. The player leaned over the barrier on my left side, and the child leaned over the barrier on my right.
One cannot presume the circles of hell for anyone, for each suffers beyond the scope of Instagram.
The player tossed the child the ball.
The child never cracked a smile.
Oh, such joylessness would make anyone weak.
Wordlessly, he returned to his seat.
He tossed the ball into the air, then caught it.
The children near him questioned him, and he pointed at the dugout.
Never a thank you spoken.
Wo to those who do not show gratitude, for their losses are magnified.
Still, may the child be strengthened for the journey by such acts of mercy.
For he has received his prize after endless suffering.
And he is yet still a young babe.
What else might he seek?
What else might compare?
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