L'il Philosophers: Friedrich Nietzsche, Age 7 1/2

"Where has Coach Mueller gone?" Mark the team captain cried. Well, I shall tell you.  We have fired him, you and I. We have forced him to quit the kickball team. But how have we done this? How were we able to take dominion over the Rockin' Wildcats? With what great sword have we cleaved the referee's whistle from around his neck? By which cunning device have we taken what has always been and always shall be bought, earned by our efforts on the field of play? With Coach Mueller disappeared from our presence and the payroll of the Parent Teacher Association, is there even a Rockin' Wildcats any longer? Do we not still introduce the bouncy, red ball to the sides of our feet? Do we not still run from base to base, dodging tags and sliding into home? Coaches, too, abandon the game. Coaches cease to run the plays, arrange the kicking lineup, assign the field positions. Coach Mueller is terminated, remains terminated. And we fired him.

We, you and I, who have eliminated Coach Mueller, what are we to do now that he is gone? Shall this sacred game of kickball continue? Shall we meet the Potsdam Hawks for the semi-finals this Saturday? Shall we, through strength and aptitude, defeat them and advance to the Prussian/German Little League Championship Tournament? Should we claim victory at the end, shall we raise the trophy high and display it as our own in the case across from the art room at school?

Yes, we shall.

These rules, these regulations called true by the confederacy of coaches, this team's coach and that team's coach and all coaches of all teams since time immemorial, they are not true. Are we to be as kindergartners when the rules of the game fly as one, sweeping proclamation from the mouths of coaches we have shown to be relics of a younger age? Are we to bow to them, echo back to the coaches that they are true and only because one says they are true?

What rule does Nature dictate that the coaches reflect? Does the bear when tagged by the gunshot lay down and die as we have learned to call ourselves "out" when tagged by the ball? Or does he rage? Does he fight? Does he go forward despite the bullet? I am not a kindergartner! I am a first grader! I am not stopped by tagging or whistles! I go forward when it is my natural urge to go forward. I round from first to second, second to third, third to home whenever my legs have the strength to carry me. Though the Hawks with their coach will certainly complain and though the referees will call our game "forfeit", is it really so true to call the match lost when, with the kindergartner mentality, our opponents lose before the match even begins?

This Saturday, victory is ours for we already claim it. We will march to the First Place trophy certain in every step. And those who will cry for their coach, their scraped knees and warm juice boxes, I say let them. I am a first grader and I choose my victories, my trophies, my after-game snacks. For truly I do not even wish to claim the championship. I do not fear what resides inside me and I seek no power cloaked in the royalty of Little League titles. Those who do, I dismay, only aspire toward the approval of coaches, to the empty absolutes of the rules. Kindergartners all, forming a union with those of them who are sufficiently captivated by the rules. And the process goes on.