'Miracle' on the ballfield

Diane Alford, the national executive director, spends 60 hours a week telling people about the league and how they can get involved. She doesn't accept a dime for the work she does to encourage communities, corporations, and the media to spread the word that disabled children can benefit from having the chance to show what they can do. Her reward, she says, is seeing the children gain confidence in themselves.

Ms. Alford also enjoys seeing how the league encouragespeople to feel more comfortable around the handicapped. "For so long we did not know how to respond to children and adults with disabilities, so in return, we just didn't respond," she says. "The appropriate response is the same you give to your families - that is, love, compassion, a hug a day and a kiss a day."

Butch Hallmark has learned how powerful a hug can be. He volunteers as a "buddy" in Moody. Buddies assist players on the field, watching out for their safety. More important, they provide companionship and friendship, something many disabled kids have never known.

Butch has been Jake's buddy from Day 1. Each week the little boy greets his friend with a big hug and smile. "Jake's a great hugger," says the soft-spoken teen, who recently finished his junior year in high school.

Whether Butch is helping Jake swing at the ball or letting the 4-year-old sleep in his arms after a game, the look of contentment on both faces remains constant.

"They call this the Miracle League," says Butch, "and that first game, when I was watching everybody play, I couldn't believe it. It was great to see their smiles as they came around the bases, especially since some of these kids can only smile or blink. It's very rewarding for me to be here."

Butch looks over at Jake, who claps and squeals when he hits the big, rubberized softball off the T. "I've matured a lot since I started," he says. "I take nothing for granted now."

What the 137 players in Moody can depend on, though, is the devotion of many volunteers: Phillip Deason, for example, who spearheaded the effort to build this park and spends hours making improvements each week. Patrick Shipp, a single man who umpires all five games each Saturday. He knows almost every child by name and drives 40 minutes out of his way so two players can come to the park. Dana Dowdle brings Jelly Bean, her miniature horse, for the kids to pet. The off-white purebred leans toward children who can't quite reach him.

Most players range in age from 3 to 19, but people like Eugene Miller and James Bolt, who are both senior citizens, are also welcome.

Everyone in Moody smiles when they recall Mr. Miller's first time at bat last year. He ran to first base, threw up his arms, and yelled, "I'm 68 years old and I'm finally getting to play baseball."

Stories like this make Alford smile. "So many times [society is] so bad about taking [handicapped] people and putting them on a shelf," she says. "Shame on us."

There is no shame on the Moody field, however, not even when Miller sings the national anthem off key, "rewriting" most of the lyrics as he goes. People here applaud every effort.

Rod White, league director, remembers how frustrating life used to be for his daughter, Kamiko. For her first 11 years, he avoided driving by the Little League field, because he knew that she would ask to play.

"I tell her she can't be a cheerleader, she can't be in the band," he says, his eyes welling up.But on Saturdays, "she doesn't have to hear, 'You can't play.' "

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