Last Wednesday evening Lamppost Head, playing for the first time on their designated home field, Oak Glen’s new synthetic turf Field of Dreams, broke a slump by crushing the ball to the fence and racing around the bases for an inside-the-park home run.

Two days later he did It again on the same field but against a different team, scoring even through he slipped and fell on the “slide-friendly” turf rounding second. These teams play in rain – they have to, if they want to get a season in – but this was a steady downpour and the game was called, erasing Lamppost Head’s home run.

A couple of days before, his brother, The 747, pitched four and a third innings and struck out 13, walking only four. On Friday, playing catcher on a rural baseball Field of Mud, where the rain was not so heavy as to prevent play, he went hitless at the plate and overthrew a pickoff attempt at third, allowing a tying run to score. He had an awful game, as did almost the whole team.

So it goes in spring youth baseball.

We grandparents bring our own chairs and sit with daughter Shark behind the chain-link fences, squinting into the sun or bundling against a chill wind or dripping on each other with our umbrellas. We cheer the good plays and moan at the bad ones, calling out “You’ve got this” to a pitcher searching for the strike zone and “Get the next one” when he doesn’t find it. We use their names when we yell encouragement to the players because they can hear us, at least when they want to.

Our daughter Shark’s boys play every organized youth sport available, including basketball, track, and soccer, which is probably their favorite. They tried football one year over Grandma Honey’s objections. She made them watch the movie “Concussion” before she would reluctantly agree to attend their games.

They both love baseball, at least when they’re not in a hitting slump. When Lamppost Head got out of his, he marveled that it was like a switch suddenly turned on. Coach moved him up in the lineup. The 747, a usually dependable hitter batting leadoff, is doing everything right at the plate but not finding that switch. We know he will.

Lamppost Head is 13, playing in the Pony Division of the Ohio Valley Youth Baseball League. The 747, 12, plays 12 and under, the Bronco Division. There are nine Pony teams and 23 Bronco teams in the league this year, all from towns in the valley or just up out of it, from East Liverpool down to Brilliant.

In that Field of Mud game, the balls in play were all uniformly brown after a few minutes. Except for the muffed throw to third, The 747 played his position well, even cutting down a runner stealing second.

The opposing team was short a couple of players and apparently called up a boy from a Mustang team, but still had only two in the outfield. (Players can play up an age group, but not down.) The call-up boy, who was very undersized, played left field, right in front of where we were sitting. He had a different uniform, and his name, “Pettit,” was stitched on the back, prompting unkind remarks from me because it’s from the French for “small.” My doubts abouthis abilities were dead wrong. This kid could throw and hit, and he caught the only fly ball our team managed to send to the outfield.

After the game, I heard our coach chew out our players when I walked on the field to get a picture of them in their muddy uniforms. He told them they played line a 1-and-9 team instead of a 10-and-0 team.

“It’s a win and we’ll take it, but you’d better get your heads on straight for these next games,” he said.

Yep, they won, 4-3, and are undefeated with three games left before playoffs. Lamppost Head’s team is also undefeated. Both teams have won with blowouts and squeakers, winning, I think, not because they are loaded up with the top players, but because they are good teams: solid defense, good pitching, smart and aggressive base-running and not bad at the plate. They have good coaches who care about the kids and can be tough, but don’t abuse their players like some coaches we hear.

The hero of Friday’s Field of Mud game was Brody, who earned three RBIs and pitched the last couple innings with a broken arm. A mostly healed broken arm, they said. Whatta guy.Our son-in-law Snickers is an assistant coach on The 747’s team. When he told the players I wanted to get a picture, one of them ran back to the infield and slid heavily into second because his uniform wasn’t muddy enough. It was just the right thing to do.

The coaches laughed and one yelled “sorry about the laundry” to his mother.

The synthetic turf has its advantages, but it would be a sad thing for baseball if kids never got to play on a Field of Mud.