When the children organize the sports, especially in a mixed-age setting, they grow in a thousand ways. Lately, our crew has been playing wiffle ball on the playground.
They nominate the oldest to be the pitchers—not because they are better at striking out the other team, but because they are better at throwing the ball so everyone can hit it. Strike-outs are boring.
Today, when someone was tagged out and started to cry, a member of the other team came over:
“That was your first out…remember you hit two home runs before this!”
“I’m not sad because I got out, I’m sad because I hurt my hand.”
“Oh…do you want to just watch for a few rounds until you feel better?”
“Sure.”
The bases are scraps of wood left over from building the playset that takes up most of center field. They scramble for ground balls, dodging monkey bars and milk crates along the way.
When one team runs out of batters because everyone is on base, they simply switch and it’s the other team’s turn at bat.
Nobody’s keeping score.
The goal isn’t to win, it’s to keep the fun going as long as possible, until their rain-soaked shirts cling to their skin and someone decides it’s time to go inside.
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