The Grandparent Leagues
Dotting My Teas By: Marlene Oxender
Have you seen the online video that looks like a horse race is about to begin? But the gates swing open, and there are no horses. It’s people who are shooting out of the gates. And the people are older. It’s the Grandparents’ Derby.
I watched it several times before forwarding it to my teenage grandson Toby. We laughed as we exchanged thoughts about how well grandparents could do in sports – given a chance.
He agreed it’d be fun to see the roles reversed. Grandchildren would call their grandparents at the beginning of the season to find out their schedule. The grandchildren would sit in lawn chairs on the sidelines, and the grandparents would play ball.
When a grandparent gets a swing and a hit, the children will yell “Run!” in hopes they’ll make it to first base before the grandparent in the outfield retrieves the ball and throws it in.
After the game, the grandchildren would be there to offer a hug and a high five. There’d be discussion about the way the game went. About how their knees held up.
There’s likely already been a screenplay written about the Grandparents’ League. There wouldn’t be the need to hire great actors; the acting would take care of itself by the seniors simply playing ball.
My grandson Deano laughed with me as we discussed what it’d be like to see grandparents playing sports. He told me he’d pay big money to watch Grandma and Grandpa’s games.
I imagine grandchildren would put our photos on social media and brag about us. They’d go ahead and say that their grandparents are way cooler than anyone else’s grandparent.
Grandparents would order reprints of their photos – in wallet size. Maybe we’d make a baseball card out of our photo. And we’d order extra prints in case the grandchildren would like one for their refrigerator.
Do you suppose those who had a competitive spirit back in the day would show us how much they haven’t changed? One thing sure to change is our vocabulary. When we’re young, a hurdle is something we jump over during a track meet. When we’re old, a hurdle is something we’ve overcome. We’ve also jumped through plenty of hoops along the way.
If a sports program were handed out at the grandparents’ games, the children would thumb through it to find their grandparents’ photos and read the statistics. By the time we’re senior citizens, our wins and losses have taken on new meaning.
When we’re young, we plan for a great life with plenty of wins. When we’re older, we know how it turned out. We know how many bad calls we overcame. How many strikes. How many hits and how many misses. How many times we were there for the save.
And so it goes – the game of life. Full of wins and losses. Full of times we ran the bases with ease. And times we knew we’d better slide into base, make the dirt fly, and hope we hear the word “safe” yelled rather loudly.
Most of us learn the game of baseball at a young age when an adult helps us find a glove that fits and a bat that’d work best for us. We learn to stand at home plate and keep our eye on a ball that’s thrown at us. We make the quickest decision we’ll ever make – to swing or not to swing.
I’ve heard it said that the reason a professional player can be successful at hitting a baseball that’s coming at him at 90 miles an hour is the intelligence of the body. Embedded in our neurology is a consciousness that is responsive to the environment – independent of our brain.
And if we become strong enough, we’ll hit the ball out of the park, put the bat down, and run the bases. We’ll cross home plate and add a home run to our statistics; If the bases were loaded, it’s a grand slam.
Metaphorically speaking, we can apply the skill of hitting it out of the park to everything we do. Through our own intelligence. Through our body consciousness. And therein lies the beauty of becoming a senior citizen who still runs the race. Who still plays along – even if it’s from a lawn chair. Who still offers some wisdom learned along the way by hollering, “Good eye” and “Run” to the children on the baseball diamond.
There’s a lot of love packed into those words flying 90 miles an hour through the air. The children hear words of encouragement and feel the love of those who’ve gathered. The love of those who are reminded of the days when they, too, played ball.
Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie and Grandma, You Already Am Old, are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com
