After I told the boys they could play, the league
blindsided us with a new restriction: Kids have to
be 7 years old by Aug. 31 to participate this year.
No exceptions.
Jimmy turns 7 in mid-September. Most of
his would-be teammates can play this fall,
but he can’t. When I gave him the news, he
sobbed uncontrollably.
This time last year, Billy was coming off the most
exhilarating month of his life, his first time on
a Little League All-Star team. Both boys were
going to camp five days a week. Billy learned to
fish. Jimmy played soccer and basketball and
spotted bald eagles nesting above a lake.
This year, they wake up and go straight to
the TV, their tablets or a video-game console
while my wife and I work. Sometimes we can
do something with them to break up the
monotony. Sometimes we can’t.
The boys understand the need to sacrifice and
be vigilant about preventing the spread of the
virus. They have accepted disappointment while
mostly maintaining their good cheer.
But the sacrifices are profound for them, much
more so than me giving up live music, sports or
travel for a year or two. They’ll never be in fourth
and fifth grade, or kindergarten and first grade,
again. They feel the losses more deeply, and the
uncertainty gnaws at them in ways I can’t see.
I know the pandemic will affect their mental
health and their view of the world for years or
decades to come, and I feel powerless.
If the only adventure they can choose is to
push a button on a remote control, then we
are failing them.