Last Turn at Bat

If you listened closely enough early Thursday afternoon, you might have heard the school bell at Cedar Springs Public Schools ring out for the last time this year.

It didn’t sound any different than it did in October or March, but somehow it just feels different in June. Perhaps a little weightier, but with relief...if that makes any sense.

Tomorrow there won’t be any buses lining up for early morning drop-off and alarms can finally get a break, at least for the students. There will, however, be more bike rides instead of bus rides. Pool days will take the place of pop quizzes, and at least a few parents will realize by mid‑July that maybe the structured school calendar wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Yes, summer is here at last!

The last day of school also has a way of making you look around, though, and some may even take inventory from the previous year. Lockers were cleaned out and yearbooks were signed with promises that may or may not hold up. Teachers stack the last of their papers and shut off lights in rooms that will sit empty for a while.

I was thinking about all of that Saturday morning while standing along the first‑base line. Which is strange, because none of that was in front of me. What was in front of me was a bench lined with four‑ and five‑year‑olds waiting for their turn at bat.

I heard, “Hey coach,” in the long, drawn out way that only a four-year-old does, and I was back where my feet actually stood.

And I realized something I probably should have noticed sooner. That is, that the bell ringing to end the school year, the one carrying the sense of something wrapping up, felt a lot like what was happening right there in the infield, as I stood at my last game as head coach of my son’s tee ball team.

There are no strikeouts in tee ball. No one really keeps track of the score and everyone gets a turn at bat. The goal isn’t perfection, it’s progress. It’s learning which way to run and remembering to drop the bat instead of carrying it halfway to first base.

Back in April, about half of these kids had never played before. We talked about which hand goes on top and which direction first base is. In fact, we ran the bases single file calling them out as we stepped on them just to help them remember.

By Saturday morning, though, these kids were making solid contact, fielding grounders, and reminding each other where to throw the ball.

There was never a big moment where it all clicked. There wasn't an announcement that they had improved.

They just did.

And then, just like that, the season was over.

For three nights a week this spring, those kids were mine to coach. I enjoyed nothing more than cheering them on, encouraging them, and watching their confidence grow a little at a time. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to that rhythm until I was standing there knowing it wouldn’t be the same next week.

Not far from those fields, Hilltop sits nearly ready for demolition. It won’t be long now before it’s gone. Another familiar piece of the landscape giving way to whatever comes next.

Maybe it’s not that change is everywhere. Maybe it’s just that you finally slow down long enough to see it. One day it’s just another week on the calendar, and the next you realize something wrapped up without you making much of a fuss about it. And while you’re standing there thinking about that, the kids are already onto whatever’s next.

Change rarely arrives with much fanfare. It happens with a bell ringing out the end, or perhaps a final at bat.

For the kids, it’s simply called "childhood" and it's unfolding the way it’s supposed to. They move from one thing to the next without looking back too long. One grade, one season, and one summer at a time.

For the rest of us, it’s something we’re lucky enough to witness. We get to stand there along the baseline, or in a parking lot outside a school, and take it in while it’s happening.

Another school year is finished here in Cedar Springs, and another season is in the books.

Years from now, I probably won’t remember which kid played which position in the last inning. I might not even remember what the final bell sounded like.

But I think I’ll remember how it felt standing there. Watching it all move forward. Watching them run and knowing it won't look exactly the same next time, but knowing this time was exactly how it was supposed to be...even if part of me wished it would slow down just a little.