The ball came fast at shortstop Michael Kennedy. He fielded it cleanly, stepped on second, pivoted and fired to first base, a 6-3 beauty of a double play.
The early inning crowd in Ashburn cheered, but to Kennedy's 12-year-old ears, something was missing. His big sister, Colleen, whom he wants at every game because she yells the loudest, wasn't in her usual place in the stands. She was stuck in traffic on the Dulles Toll Road.
"After the game, he came out of the dugout and told me he knew I had missed the play," said Colleen Kennedy, 24. "I felt sad."
"After the game, he came out of the dugout and told me he knew I had missed the play," said Colleen Kennedy, 24. "I felt sad."
For Colleen Kennedy and countless others in the Washington region, where commuters suffer through some of the longest trips in the country, worsening congestion is claiming another victim: the Little League experience.
Suits not shorts, BlackBerrys not mitts
Late-arriving parents and coaches show up in suits instead of shorts, their hands clutching BlackBerrys instead of mitts. Kids, who wear their uniforms to school and can imagine nothing as terrible as a rainy day, are robbed of pregame practices and must wait to play until as late as 7:30 at night -- almost a half-hour after the first pitch is thrown out for Nationals games at RFK Stadium. The children's games end at or past bedtime, leaving little room for homework and -- worse to Little Leaguers -- the traditional after-game trip for pizza or ice cream. And leagues struggle to sign up coaches, volunteers and umpires who can commit to arriving on time.
"When I was growing up, you would ride your bike to the field with your glove on the handlebar and coaches worked in town or owned local businesses," said Andy Braumann, who commutes from the District to coach a team in Loudoun County. "It's a different world."
For parents such as Rich Rossman, whose father played in the minor leagues for the Boston Red Sox, missing or being late to a game because of traffic means something very different from missing a dentist's appointment. Making the games is one of the ways parents judge themselves and their commitment to their kids. Missing that diving catch can haunt a family member for years.
"It's all about being there so my son can see I'm at his practice," said Rossman, who recently moved from Gainesville to Herndon to be closer to his son, who lives with his ex-wife. "It kills me to miss a game -- it kills me."
Chronic traffic
Rossman added that the region's chronic traffic "is what makes living in what could be a nice place to live unpalatable."
Just before a recent game at Greg Crittenden Memorial Park in Ashburn, the parking lot was filled with sport-utility vehicles and minivans. Out popped tots in junior-size Oakland Athletics and Chicago White Sox uniforms carrying well-oiled gloves. The players, ages 9 to 12, were quickly followed by multitasking parents, some still in work clothes, keys in one hand and bags of fast food in the other.
The parents settled into metal stands or elaborate beach chairs with beverage holders. There were plenty of empty seats.
As the game progressed, more dads and moms filtered in, some with the players' siblings in tow. They kissed their spouses and received game updates in return. Some yelled words of encouragement to their children on the field, letting them know that mom or dad had finally arrived.
The parking lot at Crittenden was designed to accommodate one car for every player. Officials didn't account for so many parents having to travel separately -- one from work and one from home -- and now the lot is frequently overwhelmed, with some vehicles shoehorned into corners or parked on the grass.
The ruckus of arrival time disappears after the first pitch, when the sounds, smells and rhythms of baseball take over. The aroma of freshly cut outfield grass fills the air. Kids yell support for nervous teammates at bat. A jumbo jet hangs lazily in the air behind left field. Cheers erupt when the only girl in the game hits a grand slam.
Depending on volunteers
Little League depends entirely on volunteers. And coaching used to require little more than time and desire. Now it demands a flexible work schedule, the ability to change clothes in the car and almost superhuman determination.
Jim Klock, president of the Dulles Little League and a bomb technician with the U.S. Secret Service, works the night shift so he doesn't have to worry about making games. Another Dulles coach, Jeff Kraus, who commutes to Rockville, works from 7:30 a.m. to 4 p.m. Others use vacation time, work at home or otherwise rejigger schedules.
Peter Ruiz, president of the Laurel Little League, leaves his office in Falls Church three hours before game time. Although Falls Church is not three hours away -- it's 33 miles from office to home -- in case of delays, he builds in extra time. Lots of extra time.
"Just in case," he said inside the league's snack shack as he filled a pot with water to boil hot dogs.
In order for Braumann to make it from his office, at 13th and I streets NW, to Ashburn for his team's first pitch, he tries to schedule his last meeting of the day for somewhere in Northern Virginia.
His strategy doesn't always work. On a recent day, Braumann pulled up moments before game time. He was still in a white dress shirt, tie, suit pants and polished shoes. He continued to talk on his BlackBerry as he fetched a bucket of baseballs and an equipment bag from his trunk. He quickly pulled on a green and yellow A's cap and headed to the dugout, his wingtips duller with every dusty step.
Braumann has backup plans to outwit the ever-present traffic jams. If he can't get to the field on time, fellow coach Dan Sutherland, a Homeland Security Department official, takes over. If both are delayed, their first-base coach steps in. In a real predicament, one of the players' moms supervises the team.
Starting times pushed back
Braumann, whose commute is an hour and forty-five minutes, had to pitch the annual home run derby in a suit and tie last year because he didn't have time to change. "It's all worth it for the kid who gets his first hit," Braumann said.
To help such parents as Braumann and to compensate for the vicissitudes of Washington area traffic, which also affects soccer and other sports leagues, starting times for Little League games have been pushed later across the region.
In Ashburn, the earliest start time is 6 p.m., a half-hour hour later compared with a few years ago. Friday games don't start until 7:30 p.m.
In Laurel, Friday night games were scrapped two years ago because of overwhelming traffic on account of local commuters and beach vacationers. Around that time, Fort Washington officials began asking that games against other leagues start at 7 p.m. to give parents and coaches a fighting chance against congestion, league president Stephanie Majette said. This year, she said, other leagues followed suit.
Little League officials from elsewhere echo complaints about the difficulty of finding coaches and volunteers in a region where few can show up by 5:30 or 6 p.m. on a regular basis. "They can't get home in time," said Melvin Barlow, president of the Dumfries-Triangle-Quantico Little League, which has begun paying umpires because it couldn't scrape together enough volunteers.
And it's not just long-distance drives that cause headaches. Former country lanes overwhelmed by traffic generated by newcomers have left some suburbs in gridlock.
At Crittenden, Dave Delaney can usually be found behind the White Sox dugout, cheering on his boy. He used to coach Little League when his family lived in Lorton. Now, his commute from Ashburn to his job in Arlington County makes it impossible.
"I just couldn't do it," Delaney said. "If you're going to commit, you have to commit."
So why do people do it?
"Because it is an oasis," said Braumann, seeming to answer a larger question about suburban life. "And if we win, everything is great."