A dose of love and baseball

Back before baseball, Jordan Bodger hated to go outside. The grass. The dirt. None of it felt like fun.

Then he got that Pacific Pirates uniform, and somehow, something changed. Saturday morning he hit yet another ball to the sound of cheers, then moved his silver walker slowly toward first base.

"I think both of us were, if not crying, then close to it," said his mother, Stephanie Bodger, 34, recalling Jordan's first day on the field two years before. "It was a dream realized."

On any given Saturday in spring, there are more than 150 children playing on Challenger Little League teams around Western Washington, kids with disabilities ranging from deafness to Down syndrome.

They make their way around the bases with the help of parents, high-school students and former players. Every child gets a chance at bat.

"If it weren't for this league, I probably wouldn't get to play," said Bobby Cavanaugh, 12, of Edmonds, who is blind.

At Walter E. Hall Park in Everett Saturday, the pitcher told the boy when to swing. A high-school student told him where to run. Well into his second season, Cavanaugh still can't believe how exciting it is, to play the game he has listened to for so long.

The Challenger Little League started in Washington state in 1989, an effort to involve kids with special needs in organized sports. For more than a decade, there was only one team for all of Snohomish and Island counties.

But a few years ago, Little League District 1, which serves the area, began a kind of campaign, handing out fliers, talking to doctors and approaching the kids themselves. Now there are seven teams with 93 players.

It's sport in the traditional sense of the word, the kind of thing that boosts self-confidence, tests limits, pulls kids together and teaches them social skills. But in most cases, it's not competitive. The games run only a few innings. The coaches don't keep score.

The players take their time at bat, swinging several times before the ball is placed on a tee. Sometimes three children will run toward home plate at once; sometimes no one will run at all.

Eight-year-old Johnny Sutton hit the ball on Saturday and decided he would rather not stop at first base.

"Just did a little dance and took off for the fence," said his mother, Lee Sutton, smiling.

Beyond the sport, there is a sense of solidarity that comes with the games. Every parent there has pushed through those first few moments, hearing the word "disability" applied to their child. Lying there in the hospital, Carrie Rogerson, of Everett, felt like it was happening to someone else.

"I didn't think I could do it," said Rogerson, whose son has Down syndrome. "I thought my life was ruined."

She stood on Saturday behind the fence, smiling at her son Drew, 9, a small boy at home plate, shaking his hips for show. Between swings, he twirled the bat around his head. He touched it to one cleat, and then the other.

"Come on, Bud!" she yelled. "Get a hit now!"

They told her at the hospital to get rid of all her expectations. But after the shock was over, and she got support from other parents, Rogerson decided to ignore that advice. Through the years, she has pushed Drew harder than she pushes her older son.

"If all he can do is work at McDonald's, then fine," she said. "But how do you know, unless you aim higher?"

It's true, the parents said, that their children require more time, more energy, more care than most. But the kids give back so much. Some parents said they had learned how to slow down and live lighter. Others said they gained a stronger appreciation for the simple things.

Most children grow up so quickly, said Kevin Sutton, it's hard to keep up. But kids with Down syndrome stay at a certain age for a few years, he said. It gives a parent time to sit back and enjoy it.

"If you love children, it's precious," said Sutton.

Cara Solomon: 206-464-2024 or csolomon@seattletimes.com