Farewell to Riddle Field*

A crisp breeze whips up Hill Drive from Diver’s Cove, blanketing Riddle Field in a light fog. It is May, but tonight spectators at the Laguna Beach Little League’s end-of-season Intermediate tournament game huddle beneath plaid blankets and clutch Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate.

Inside the snack bar, I enjoy the warmth produced by the humming slushie machine, glad to have distance from the nervous energy in the stands.

The scoreboard glows in center field, announcing the bottom of the last inning. Our team, Hobie, is down by two runs to VFW. We have one out and it’s our last at-bat. It’s looking grim, but the team has a slim chance of winning. Our fastest runner is on first. If another batter can get on base and the next gets a big hit, Hobie will win.

Normally, in anticipation of a loss, I would plan a post-game pep talk in which my husband and I tell our son James that his team will do better next time. But for James, there is no next time unless Hobie wins and advances in the tournament. At 13, he has aged out of little league.

I nervously wipe down the greasy popcorn machine while Coach Tom encourages our batter. “You’ve got this! Wait for your pitch.”

VFW’s pitcher launches the ball, our batter swings and the clink of metal bat against ball echoes across Riddle. Cheers erupt, and I hold my breathe. The outfielder catches it. Darn. Two outs.

“Let’s go, kiddo!” calls a Hobie mom as our next batter approaches the plate. “Swing for the fences!”

And he does—the kid hits a scorcher to third, where the fielder scoops up the ball and rockets it—over the first baseman’s head.

“Go!” I yell. “Run!”

The runner on first sprints around second toward third; the batter rounds first and slides into second. Both are safe. James lets loose a whoop from the dugout. We have a chance!

The next batter sets up, knowing everything rides on him.

“You got this!” someone calls.

He takes a deep breath. The ball zips into the catcher’s glove—a strike.

“That was practice,” Tom assures. “Take your time.”

He swings again. Another strike. I see my son standing the dugout, fingers clenched around the metal fencing. My own hands clutch the shiny metal snack bar counter.

VFW’s pitcher winds up and throws.

“Ball!” the ump yells, and the Hobie crowd sighs in relief. It’s not over yet.

Our batter circles his bat overhead and the pitch flies in. He swings, makes contact and the ball flies into left field. Our runners on third and second race towards home, the crowd roaring. VFW’s left fielder runs, glove outstretched.

I lose the ball in the glare of the field lights. Did he catch it? Or did we win?

The boy pulls the ball from his glove and waves it in triumph. My heart sinks for our players.

After the teams shake hands, our coaches gather the boys on the grass under the scoreboard and share words of wisdom. More than one boy wipes his eyes. It is a sad end not only to the season, but also to James’s little league career.

But I choose not to dwell of tonight’s loss. I remember warm memories of past seasons: fourth grade, when his team, CBA, won both the regular AA season and the league tournament; sixth grade, when he received the league’s sportsmanship award; and all the way back to T-ball at Lang Field, when the cherubic kindergartners looked like they’d topple over under the weight of their batting helmets.

For our family, Little League was about more than baseball. It was about the coaches, players and parents who entered our lives over the years and the lessons they taught our son—never an all-star but always enthusiastic—about teamwork, resilience and fun.

I look at the clock on the wall. 9:45. The field lights turn off at 10 p.m. My husband and I hang bags of sunflower seeds on the metal rack and stack containers of Big League Chew under the counter.

Eventually, the boys circle up for one last cheer, and we parents join in whole-heartedly. They are still kids, after all, and losing hurts.

“Sorry, bud,” I tell James as he devours his final Riddle Burger.

“It’s okay,” he shrugs. “They outplayed us. That’s how it goes.”

“Ready?” asks my husband. It’s 9:55.

Am I? Not really. But sometimes things must end to make way for new adventures, new passions and new mentors. I turn off the snack bar lights, grateful for all that Riddle Field and the people it houses have given us.

* Originally published in Stu News Laguna's "From Laguna With Love" column on April 9, 2021.