The American Spectator

Summer is here. School is out. Other rhythms must evolve to limn the suburban day. The test papers have all been graded, the popularity tears have dried and the car pools have subdivided into the original family puddles. The sun beams down on parents and children, brothers and sisters, learning again the joys — ouch, stop pinching me! — of each other’s company. The green grass provides a comfortable cushion — hey, what is this squishy spot? — for the sundry poses of the indolent.

Here in Miami, the tropical clime slows motion to the veriest crawl. We loll languidly through these delightful moments of living.

MY SON, AT 16, IS AN ACCOMPLISHED high-school baseball player with one hurdle he is powerless to overcome. The private school he attends does not field a team. In theory he is eligible to play for the local public school but their practice schedule conflicts with class. But in the summer they continue their competitive season, and the coach was glad to add him to their squad. Result: I am sitting in the bleachers watching my son play for the school where he is a theoretical student. He knows most of the players from Little League in years past, so everyone gets along.

The stands are dotted with parents like me, but packed with these little wannabe girlfriends of the straining-toward-adulthood players. Their enthusiasm for the team is exceeded only by their ignorance of the rules. Which makes me the avuncular guy who knows the answers and can practice pedagogy without pedantry.

“Wait. Why does the runner have to go back to first base?”

“Because the batter hit the ball foul.”

“Why is it foul if he hit it?”

“Anything outside those white lines is called foul.”

“Oh.”

Or this one:

“Why was he out if he didn’t swing?”

“Because that was strike three.”

“How could it be a strike if he didn’t swing?”

“If the ball is around the middle of his body and it goes over that white plate thing over there, it is an automatic strike.”

“Oh.”