He is my son you see.
He's only just a boy you know,
And he means the world to me.
I did not raise my son, dear fan,
For you to call him names,
He may not be a superstar,
It's just a Little League game.
So, please don't curse those boys out there,
They do the best they can,
They never tried to lose a game,
They're boys and you're a man.
The game belongs to them, you see,
You're really just a guest.
They do not need a fan who boos,
They need the very best.
If you have nothing nice to say,
Please leave the boys alone,
And if you have no self-control,
Why don't you stay at home?
So, please, don't curse those boys out there,
Each one's his parents' son,
And win or lose or tie, you see,
To us, they're NUMBER ONE!
author unknown
The bases are loaded, the die has been cast.
Mom and Dad cannot help him now; he stands all alone.
A hit at this moment would send the team home.
The ball meets the plate, he swings and he misses.
There's a groan from the crowd,
with some boos and some hisses.
A thoughtless voice cries, "Strike out the bum!"
Tears fill his eyes; the game's no longer fun.
So open your heart and give him a break.
For it's moments like this, a man you can make.
Keep this in mind when you hear someone forget:
He's just a little boy and not a man yet.
By Chaplain Bob Fox
from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul
