That most American of pastimes, baseball, is all around us now. The BoSox are doing well, so we hear daily of their comebacks, streaks, great plays and gaffes. High school baseball is also in full swing, and you can read about many local teams in the next section, merely pages away.

Less covered by media but no less significant or dramatic is Little League. I had the chance to see a few innings of my nephew Daniel’s recent game and it was a special treat, not just to see him pitch, play outfield and run the bases all in one game, but, for me, to learn a life lesson in the process.

I played sports in high school and in youth leagues, but that was a long time ago, and I don’t remember much except a few legend-in-my-own-mind highlights. I wanted to win. I didn’t want to strike out. I certainly wasn’t thinking about how I was reacting to challenges thrown in my way. But as I watched Daniel’s game last weekend, for some reason that’s all I thought about. Dealing with challenge.

I was amazed at how these kids responded to failure. My mother and brother and I watched the game from the first-base line. There were no bleachers. We stood by a chain-link fence topped with yellow plastic padding about 15 feet from the base. Kid after kid would sprint toward first after making contact with the ball. More often than not, those kids were tagged out. There were some close calls, but most of the kids had no chance. Being in a position to see their expression after the ump notified them of their unenviable status, that of being “out,” I was struck by their lack of physical response. The kids kept composure. There was no rolling of the eyes, no swearing, no feeling like the end of the world was coming, no mean stares at the first baseman. Nothing. They turned back toward the dugout, head held high.

Kids, obviously, can deal with disappointment better than we think they can, and maybe better than we adults can. They would run through first base, hear the dreaded exclamation “You’re out!” and then calmly run back to the dugout. No big deal. No kicking dirt at the ump’s shins. No cussing out the other team.

When I played baseball, I was quite competitive. There was this one hefty kid, Larry West, who had a habit of launching the long ball into left field. Where I was. I remember being nervous every time he stepped up to the plate. I wanted to show this tough guy who was boss, but my real fear was losing one of his pop-ups in the sun and then having it hit my face. It never happened, but I remember fearing it would.

It seemed like such a big deal to me back then. The goal was to win. If we won, our coach would spring for anything we wanted at the concession stand. But I also hated to lose. Even worse, I hated to be the cause of our loss.

I didn’t see any of that pre-teen angst in the faces of those kids last weekend. They didn’t appear to be nervous. They were kids enjoying a little time out of school playing a game with their friends dressed up in some cool, colorful duds. They were living life, not fretting about it.

As I watched my nephew’s game, it occurred to me that I want to be like those kids who rounded first and headed back to the dugout. They had given it their best shot but failed. However, they knew they’d be up again and maybe next time they’d get on base.

And really, that’s the only way to live. Most of us won’t be superstars. Failure will come. You can stay safe on the sidelines and just watch, but that’s not real, nor is it much fun. It’s better to get out there, take those hits and bruises to both body and psyche, and persevere.

Daniel ended up pitching the last inning, walked a few kids and eventually filled up the bases. I felt pretty bad for him. But he didn’t get flustered. He struck out the next three and never let a run score. I was glad to witness it, but more than his pitching prowess, I was proud of his positive attitude. He and all those kids were able to soak up disappointment and move on.

John Balentine, of Windham, is a former editor of the Lakes Region Weekly.