I had a grand view of opening day last week. I settled in to watch a batter square up, hit the baseball and then, ever so casually, lope to first.

Suddenly I was in pain. That was my 8-year-old chasing the bases.

"Run! Run! Run!" I shouted - stressing the word a little more each time. The jog to second, third, and, finally, around to home was just as casual, and certainly no quicker. The journey seemed to take minutes.

Then this is what Little League is all about - learning the game, playing for fun, and, especially at first, discovering that if you don't run fast enough someone will throw you out.

I stood behind the backstop watching my son and remembering how hard it is to learn a game when the world - at least the world you care about - is watching.

My first baseball experience wasn't so grand. My parents were divorced and I had to get myself to the Little League tryouts. My mom was working. The feeling is still with me: It's like walking into a large meeting hall where you don't know a soul - magnified by the anxiety of being 8 years old.

I made the team. But I was happy when the season ended and I could go back to playing whiffle ball in my friend's back yard. (Now that was a major league.)

The next season, I didn't sign up to play. I loved baseball, but I didn't want to stink at it.

Fortunately, a few years later, I was staying at my grandparents' house for the summer and gave youth baseball another shot. My father and uncles worked with me a bit, trying to teach me basic skills so I could rise to mediocrity. I was so happy. I fielded OK - playing right field and first base - and caught most of the balls that were hit in my direction. This was cool because I was one of the kids who stood in the outfield thinking: "C'mon, hit it somewhere else, please."

I was even a bit proud of the fact that I had a batting average of zero. I still scored runs because I walked a lot, and once made first when the catcher dropped a third strike and failed to tag me out.

Now I am the parent trying to pass on what little I know. I find myself tossing the advice that remains fresh in my mind: "Stay in front of the ball." "Step into the pitch as you hit." "Don't be afraid of the ball."

That last one is the toughest because a thrown or batted ball hurts; as parents we wince, shrug off our instinct to rush in with comfort, and pronounce: "Just tough it out." It's the best we can do.

I want my son to learn from his mistakes and to discover how much fun that can be. It would be easier - and less painful for parents - if we could take our sons and daughters, open our brains and initiate a software download. Then they could understand instantly, and without the anxiety of being watched as they learn.

But life isn't like that. We need mistakes. We need to see the ball go through our legs into center field - just so we can re-live that moment over and over. That's how we build future success and moments of glory that we also will see over and over in our memories.

I remember one great catch. It was a third out during a close game. I was thrilled, so I tucked the ball in my glove and ran into the dugout. Then folks started shouting: "Who has the ball? Hey, kid, this isn't the majors . . . you can't keep the ball."

The rules of the game have changed since I was a kid. In some leagues, with the youngest players, an inning is over after everyone bats - not just after three outs. It's fun to watch kids play a game filled of wonder, failure and lessons.

And perhaps the season really starts the day a player is tagged out because he or she ran too slowly.

Mark Trahant's phone message number is 206-464-8517.

Copyright © 2000 The Seattle Times Company