Baseball, Not a Game for the Kids
Posted: Thursday, March 11, 2010
by Jack H. Schick
As I ran the dogs out to the field behind the school the other evening I was surprised to see a group of adults hanging around the gazebo and a bunch of kids up on the playground with a couple of men. There were still plowed up piles of snow along the edge of the asphalt and patches of ice covering half of the field. There were about twenty kids, maybe ten years old. I watched for a minute and realized. It was baseball practice! I'm sure the two coaches were a couple of the dads. I smiled. It was the start of a new Little League season!
I remembered that one season, when my young son eagerly went to the first baseball practice. The coaches spent fifteen minutes telling the kids how to get their mitt into shape, how to oil it, how to break it in. I knew they were doomed. What does that have to do with winning baseball games? My son cried after the first couple of losses. I reassured him that the 0-13 season had built character, that losing every time he played was good for him, would make him a man, though I didn't really believe it myself. I remembered the hot summer day that year when I interrupted our camping trip, dragged him out of the lake and drove him 100 miles back to town to be the catcher. They lost again. I rubbed ice on his temples when he collapsed from heat exhaustion toward the end of the game. He was starting to become a man, I reassured him.
When my son got older, and moved up to the next division, I convinced him that he wanted to be a pitcher. I built a back stop next to the house and 'let' him pitch to me every day. "Hit the mitt! Stride toward the plate! Use the same motions every time!" I pounded it into his head, again and again. It went on for over a year before he got to fulfill our dream. I volunteered to be coach that season to be sure my son got to pitch. His first inning on the mound was a glorious success for me, (him, I mean). He struck out the side on eleven pitches! How could a dad be prouder? My own son was the ace of my pitching staff.
The season went well. I had a good group of 9 and 10 year olds. We (they, I mean), finished 6-8, but the regular season was only a tune up for the post season tournament. In the double elimination play we (they, I mean), became know as the Giant Killers. We (they),eliminated teams with 14-2, 13-3 and 12-4 records. We (they), went 6-2 in the tournament and finished 4th out of 26 teams. I told my team that they should be proud. They'd (we, I mean), sent about 80 kids home as losers before they (we), became losers themselves.
In one of those upset wins the opposing coaches and parents couldn't believe we were beating them. The coaches became frantic. There was yelling and scolding in their dugout. A coach went out into the stands to watch the umpire's from behind. He was sure he was blowing a lot of calls against their pitcher. The coach's son was swatting at butterflies in left field when a ball was hit that way. He learned to say awake when he was playing baseball from then on, the hard way. His dad charged out onto the field dragged him by the scruff of his neck to the dugout and shoved him down the steps. His season was over.
Their dad/coaches tried every trick to win, but I had tricks too. When I saw their pitcher was getting tired and frustrated, to further break his confidence, I started shouting to my batters. "He's done! His arm is shot! He's thrown almost 100 pitches!" I still remember the desperate look on the boy's face when he gave up another hit. I smiled. I knew he was broken, that we were going to win. A real baseball player has to keep his cool, can't get rattled like that, no matter how old he is. At the end, when we were far enough ahead that a victory was guaranteed, I allowed my pitcher to hit a few batters to vent some of the frustration we had over the way the other coaches and parents were acting.
We surpassed all expectations that season. They took me and my team too lightly. We watched team after team go home with their heads hung low. Sometimes we mocked them in the line at the treat stand. The 6-8 team won. Parents patted me on the back and shook my hand. It was my most memorable and successful baseball season ever. My son remembers a lot of it too.
When I came back across the field with my dogs, baseball practice was over. I couldn't understand it. There was at least another 15 minutes of light. I'd wanted to watch them some more, maybe give them some tips from an old baseball coach's book of experience. I didn't want those dads to have a disappointing season. Even if they did, though, it would be an opportunity to learn more about baseball. Then they could better teach their kids how this game, and the game of life is played-with a ruthless, selfish desire for glory.
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)We have relatives that were so into "ball" that the baby could smack a ball at a bit over two years old.... Am thinking there are issues now that he probably isn't good enough to turn pro and wondering if they would have done anything differently if they could do it over....
as always, Jack, a great read.Thanks again for over rating me, but I'll take it.only "over-rated" between your own ears...if I like/enjoy it...I give the marks it deserves...bbbbllllllaaat!
Baseball, like all sports, is a character builder... being a committed to the team is a great message...I'm being sarcastic about parents' involvement. Thanks for reading
They grow up in a hurry and its good that we have some good memories. Thank you for sharing.actually I was trying to show how parents ruin kids' sports- not too many got it
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