The calendar tells us that it’s spring. But last Monday, the night before the season’s first Little League practice, snow squalls filled the sky.

Over the weekend the manager gathered us on a beautiful day for pizza and whiffle ball. Then our second practice got scrubbed for snow, a Nor’easter that eventually dumped half a foot on the nation’s capital. The storm shut down the federal government.

Practice is re-scheduled for Saturday but, of course, there’s a march on that I cannot miss. The 24th, initially prognosticated to be a day filled with cherry blossoms, will instead be a day filled with citizens rightfully angry that their government continues to fail them on matters of public safety. All in the name of Legacy.

All in the name of things handed down from generation to generation.

With baseball on my mind, and our young people raising their voices against flagrant disregard for common sense this weekend, I’m feeling reflective about the legacies that are passed down to us, and the sometimes awful manner in which this is done. The first in a series on the topic begins here.

Coach had me crouch at the plate.

Draw walks. That was the idea. I did as I was told.

The older boys in the line-up would hit me home.

I finished the season small and compact but lacking hand-eye coordination.

The Little League coach, who piloted F-16s with the Air National Guard, had trained me to shrug pitches.

But shouldn’t he have had me reaching for the stars?

A few seasons of that and I tried out for middle school ball with bleak prospects.

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