"The Sandlot"

One of my favorite movies(maybe the favorite) is “The Sandlot.” That 1993 movie centers around nine boys whose sole reason for existing is seemingly to spend their summers playing baseball in an abandoned makeshift field from which the movie takes its name. Throughout the movie, we hear the voice of the narrator, one of the boys who is now grown up and telling us the story of his first summer in the sandlot. Smalls, the boy’s last name, tells us how when he first arrived in the neighborhood, he felt somewhat like an outsider who did not seem to be part of the “team.” In time, however, and after much ribbing and “evaluating,” Smalls becomes as much a part of the team as the other boys. He even becomes the star player’s (Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez) protégé.

I often think of my own childhood when I watch the movie (which is quite often). The fact that the movie takes place in the 1960’s, near the time when I myself was growing up and began to play ball in earnest, adds and added touch of nostalgia to the whole viewing experience. My own history growing up is not unlike the boys of the sandlot. Like them, my friends and I spent just about every waking moment playing ball. Long before we had fields to play on in our neighborhood, we would play in open lots very much like the sandlot (though often more a rocklot than a sandlot) and, if we couldn’t get to those areas, we would just play on the street in front of our homes using the manholes and drain covers as our bases. I remember how we would have to interrupt the game every time a car would come by.

Of course, like the boys in The Sandlot we too would spend practically the whole summer playing baseball. Once the city government built baseball fields near our house, we would leave early in the morning to start our game playing day. The games would be interrupted only by the need to go home and have lunch or by the occasional rain shower. Only darkness (at a time when lights had yet to be installed on the fields) would finally force us to go home at the end of the day. It was a very different time; our parents were not worried that we would be in danger even though they didn’t see hide nor hair of any of us for hours.

Then came “organized baseball.” For several years, my friends and I had to be content with playing ball with each other with no league to call our own. Ours was simply the desire to play ball and spend the day having fun. I remember shortly before we finally had a league, that my mother once made us t-shirts with the name of my favorite baseball team written on them with markers (Mets). We were so proud of those shirts and went out and played with a lot of joy. Of course, as you can imagine, something was going to happen to those shirts, and it came in the form of one of those aforementioned rain showers. We were caught in a downpour which not only drenched us, but also made the writing on the shirts run. It was quite funny to see the name of the team emblazoned on our chests after we took the shirts off!

In this season when we celebrate the greatest gift given to man, I’d like us all to take some time to remember the gift God gave us in our parents. They were not perfect, no one is, but it is in no small measure due to their diligence that we are here today. Their love for us kept us safe, provided for us what we needed, and helped us grow up and, for those of us who are believers, come to the faith (even if they were not believers, they guarded us until the day God called us). For those among us who are still raising their children, have the Father of our souls as your example and give your children the love, care, and example that they so badly need. In a day when they are bombarded with bad examples, your guidance is critical to their development.

It is my hope that you will have a wonderful Christmas season and that, in the years to come you and your children can look back to these early days and thank God for each other. Thank God for His unspeakable gift!