The escape of sports

C.J. Shields did his best James Shields impression.
It was easy enough considering their relationship.
“Last year, I told him they were cousins,” joked Greg Shields, C.J.’s father.
Nevermind the fact that this wasn’t true in the least bit, C.J’s emulation of James was still spot on.
I saw the intensity in his eyes that peered just over his glove. I saw the frustration in his body language when he surrendered a walk. I saw the pure, unadulterated focus he possessed between each pitch.
All this from a 12-year-old in a Little League game.
Before Tuesday night, I hadn’t seen a Little League contest since I was on the baseball diamond myself. And as I watched C.J and the other kids on the field, I couldn’t help but go back 10 years in time when baseball really was everything.
Yesterday, talks with Iran about nuclear programs continued. Germany persisted its internal debate about what to do with Greece’s failing economy. And Donald Trump reminded all of us how rich he really is.
But none of it mattered. At least not to C.J., not to Greg and not to me.
It was the semi-finals of the Little League series in Iola, Kansas, and that seemed like it was most important.
During my time in college, I was incredibly lucky to cover some amazing events like Super Bowl Media Day, the Men’s and Women’s Final Four and Southeastern Conference football rivalries each week.
It was surreal. It was unbelievable. But it kind of felt like business.
Everything that was there in the stadiums and at the press conferences felt like it had to be sold to the consumers.
On baseball diamond No. 1 in Riverside Park, there were just fans of the game. It truly took the players and I out of the “real world” and into an escape of sorts.
I held my camera and panned over the players.
Some looked anxious. I remember that.
Standing in center field, glove held above my face, I would actually beg out loud for the ball not to be hit toward me. I wanted nothing more than to make an incredible catch or throw, but I realized it was far more likely that I would make an incredible gaffe.
So I stood there, pleading with the inside of my glove.
Some kids looked excited. I remember that.
Waiting on the on-deck circle, seeing a pitcher I knew I could hit, I would swing mightily to prepare for the battle at the plate. I always imagined hitting one over the fences, but it never turned out that way.
So I stood there, telling myself that this is the time I get my home run.
It was encouraging to stand behind my camera and imagine those same thoughts going through another kid’s head. It was even better to realize my choice to move 1,200 miles away from home was already paying off.