(Revised and Updated 2026)
I lasted only a few weeks in little-league.
We were so "little" we were given the uplifting team name of “Gnats.”
How is that for self-esteem?
This ball-and-bat activity required a uniform and a number. I would quickly learn that conformity was the preferred method for the adult world to control children ... into adulthood. And beyond. The world loves uniformity but we have repackaged it by the more innocuous title "globalism."
There was other “gear” to go with it, too. Shoes, hats, mitts. All were programmed to make the participant feel he was "original." Part of a "team." Special.
And then their were "practices." I simply didn’t understand the logic. I went to school. Adults told me what to do. I came home. Adults told me what to do. And, now, here was a “game” that was supposed to be fun and adults were telling me what to do. "Homework" was simply renamed "practices." I wanted none of it. Just let me ride my bike. Tramp the woods. Have some real fun with no strings attached!
And that is the when and where of the adult world losing me. I was not having "fun." At least, not on my own "turf" ... never mind so-called "bases" I had to run to appease "them."
I did not feel free. I felt constricted. Standing in the outfield and listening to adults in the bleachers yelling, s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g, at their kids:
“Run!”
“No, stay!”
“‘Atta boy!”
We were like pet dogs in training.
A few weeks later I attempted to catch a fly ball that instead exploded in my face and gave me an instant bloody nose. It hurt! I called it quits and hung up my glove for good. I still have that glove to remind me of my resolve. It holds a prize stone I found in the woods.
My heroes growing up were Native Americans, not sporting figures. I thought people like Geronimo, Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull the bravest, most noble and of souls I utterly respected. In movies I rarely rooted for the cavalry. Instead, I admired the simple way-of-life Native Americans lived. They blended with Nature. They were Self-sufficient. Why were people always killing them? In play, I did my utmost to emulate that culture and life style.
I read everything I could about different tribes. My Schwinn bike was my horse and we traveled and scouted for miles. In the summers, because I returned home covered with dirt and grit and cuts and scratches, pockets full of rocks, dead insects, mysterious bones and debris, I was banished to the basement to bathe in the laundry tub. When I turned down the cuffs of my blue jeans, half the planet spilled out.
And, so, my parents, in their make-believe folly, thought Boy Scouts would be perfect since it was a club that did the things I already liked. Silly grown ups! Why did I need an organization to do what I was already doing on my own?
My father was a boy scout. He sat me down and told me how wonderful it was going to be. All the great things they did outdoors that I already liked. It certainly sounded promising . . . Until it regressed into another uniform. And another pejorative name. This time, I was christened “Cub.” There were meetings. And then the inevitable homework: the rules and oaths. RULES and OATHS! How to tie your scarf. And then the dreaded scourge of childhood: Memorization. I was given a whole book! Boys reverently turned the pages.
Mind you, This was the 1950s and I attended a catholic school where the most despised book on the face of the entire planet and beyond was called The Baltimore Catechism. Innocent children were forced to memorize it word by word, week after week, year after year and to recite it back verbatim lined up like prisoners to our jailers called nuns with male names I never quite understood. Oh, it was cruel and wicked! Today, Baltimore is a slum! Divine Justice ...
Needless to say, I did not last very long as a scout. One night, my renegade friend Danny (who was wonderfully condemned to hell in my school because he smoked) and myself disappeared into the darkness. We climbed the chain link fence and high-tailed it the hell out of there. My father, understandably, was disappointed. Me ... not so much so. I had regained my freedom and territory in the woods. The scouts were quite notably the Calvary. They were the enemy.
I'm not sure what happened to Danny. We were not alike at all. Maybe that's why I liked him. He took freedom to heights I dared not go. He smoked. He cussed. He spit. He wad disobedient. He kept nothing in. Once when we tramping the woods he said he had to take a piss--a word I did not know. He peed behind a tree. Okay. So the next day I'm standing at the pull-out cutting board watching my mother make me a sandwich and I casually said, "I have to take a piss." Without hesitation or warning, she slapped me a good one!
There were threats and murmurs of other clubs and activities that might suit me. Thankfully, for the most part, I was left alone and fended quite well on my own reading and exploring Nature. Reading. Creating independent projects and creating my own clubs that didn’t have uniforms. Or memorization.
It progressed well until we moved to a new town and a new school. I was in the seventh grade and my biggest sin was about to be revealed. I was not an altar boy! It just about caused my excommunication. Pilgrims, I implore you to believe me. I had no choice! NONE! Sister Jerome was adamant! Again, there was the ubiquitous uniform. The memorization of prayers. In Latin, mind you! At least I wasn't tested. So, kneeling before the altar and next to the priest, I simply mumbled gibberish except for the part that said “mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” I knew that part and so I always uttered that a bit loudly. If they caught on, I was never confronted. Lighting the candles before church and ringing the bells was fun. That was about it, though.
It wasn’t too bad a "club." It offered access to parts of a church no one knew. And, one could actually make money from it serving at weddings and funerals. Because I small and cute, I was favored. If kids received money instead of grades, we’d be a nation of geniuses.
As soon as I graduated eight grade, I also graduated being an altar boy. I was done. But high school meant a dress uniform of shirt, slacks, shoes and always that damn tie around my neck! Once, I wore a turtle-neck sweater! A beautiful turtleneck sweater, I might add. Walking down the hall, a Brother stopped me with his palm shoved into my chest. With his free hand he pulled down this turtle's neck. Kids gathered around. Ha-Ha, I had on my dress shirt and tie. I was free to go. But my favorite was the fringed-leather Indian vest. It was so 60s! As long as I wore that dress shirt and tie, there was nothing they could really do. There are always to get around the system!
Years passed and through a snafu I was drafted during Viet Nam. Another uniform!!! It wasn't easy, but I wriggled myself free. And, then, the draft simply ended. I would have made a lousy soldier. From my perspective, I was doing them a favor.
For mere safety concerns, the childhood I led is almost impossible today. Technology and politics makes it impossible. It practically demands children stay indoors, safe and close to home. I was fortunate to experience what I call an “organic” childhood mostly free from restraint that allowed personal discovery and wonder. Even injury. It’s a miracle I didn’t break my neck. It's a miracle I survived on my own without a uniform. Instead of a childhood memorized, my childhood was, instead, blessed with memory of personal discovery and joy devoid of Big Brother.
Now, in my 70s and on my last lap, I have learned to understand that too many people actually welcome conformity. With it comes security and surety. Governments. Banks. Big Pharma. Armies. Industrial Farming. Mega Grocery Stores.
Maude said it best: "You know, at one time, I used to break into pet shops to liberate the canaries. But I decided that was an idea way before its time. Zoos are full, prisons are overflowing... oh my, how the world still dearly loves a cage." (Harold and Maude)
