I say, “Ball’s live.”
Outfield players run right past it, looking around to see where it went.
A mom on the bleachers yells, “Throw it to first!”
A Raccoon shouts back, “You’re not the boss of me!”
Another Raccoon finally picks up the ball.
A dad shouts, “Tag her!”
The Raccoon runs to first and tags Macy, who isn’t even officially in the game yet.
Someone shouts, “Wrong player!”
Another voice from the bleachers yells, “Llamacorns already scored!”
Adrianna hears that and sings, “I DID score! I did score! Score Sparkly Llamacorn! Score!”
“You have to touch the base!” I shout to Charlotte. Then I mutter to myself, “And you have to be the batter.”
I touch the tips of my fingers to my temple, pressing into my forehead.
Mayhem. Chaos. This game has devolved into a runaway train with no tracks in sight.
Parents leap up from the bleachers, running onto the field to intervene.
One man is holding his phone up, filming. I catch a piece of him saying, “And this is how little league goes, folks.”
My eyes snag on Hallie. She’s cracking up. Doubled over and then rocking back, wiping tears from her eyes, her face alight with amusement. A warmth floods me at the sight of her.
The mascot charges the baseline with her fluffy sparkly wand in hand. She’s waving that wand with gusto. Suddenly, the wand bursts open, sending glitter arcing out over the infield, falling like sparkly feathers from a pillow fight. Thedirt gleams with pinpricks of light. Every child abandons the game to run under the glistening shower of iridescent confetti.
One Raccoon screams, “It’s snowing!”
Players are spinning in it. Opening their mouths. Doing jazz hands.
I shout over the ruckus, “Where’s the ball?”
I glance around.
“Llamacorns, find the ball!” I yell to my players.
Some girls drop to their hands and knees.
A Raccoon lifts the glitter-coated ball. “I found it!”
Her wide-eyed teammate exclaims, “It’s so shiny!”
The umpire is repeatedly blowing his whistle now.
I shout. “Llamacorns, back to the dugout!” and then I add, “Everyone back to your positions!”
A few players yell, “I am!”
No one is.
The umpire’s whistle-blows rise—long and shrill. His puffy cheeks redden.
