Manager’s Big Victories in Little League Come From Small Triumphs

As an 18-year-old manager of a team of 14- and 15-year-olds in 1976, I was nervous before the preseason parents’ meeting.

The fact that Sparky Anderson, then manager of the Big Red Machine, was the father of my second baseman didn’t relieve the tension.

I worked off nervous energy before the meeting by over-preparing. When everyone was assembled in the living room of my parents’ home in Thousand Oaks, I handed out schedules of each practice the team would have, 28 in all, planned to the minute. “Let’s see, on May 8, from 5 o’clock to 5:12 we’ll be practicing tagging up on fly balls. From 5:12 to 5:28, we’ll work on the squeeze play.”

Fortunately, no one laughed. I asked parents if they had any questions and one father raised his hand. He said he had a question not for me, but for Sparky.

“What makes Tom Seaver so good?” the man asked.

I was mortified because I felt a responsibility to make Sparky Anderson comfortable while he was in my parents’ home. The last thing he needed, I thought, was a stupid question.

But over the next hour, Sparky taught lessons in graciousness and how much a man can love a game.

He enthusiastically replied: “I’ll tell you why Tom Seaver is so good. Ever notice the dirt spot on his right knee? That comes from pushing off the mound harder than any man alive.”

Sparky began talking baseball and didn’t stop until his wife, Carol, said, “I’ve got to get him out of here before he gets into sliding,” and pulled him out the front door.

As the Andersons walked up the driveway to their car, I stood on the porch and couldn’t help hollering: “Mr. Anderson, what did you think of the practice outlines? Will it help for the players to know what they’ll be doing?”

Over his shoulder, he replied: “The important thing, Stevie, is that you know what you’re doing.”

Whether I know what I’m doing as a coach is open for debate, but there is no doubt, I’m still doing it.

People I meet outside of baseball say there is something strange about volunteer coaching. I’ve been labeled irresponsible and detached from reality. Other than that, they say, it’s wonderful community service.

Most people don’t understand the allure. If they only knew.

My 11th season is half over, and though we’ve lost as many games as we’ve won, it’s been the most rewarding year yet. After a three-hour workout, I ask if anyone wants to stay for extra batting practice and all 12 boys raise their hands. How can you turn your back on that?

Many youngsters who play baseball don’t need video games, a pocket full of quarters or their MTV for enjoyment. Just give them a bat, ball and gloves and they’ll create fun out of thin air.

The game is simple and complex all at once, and that has appealed to me ever since I was first thrust into coaching when I was 15 and playing in the Senior Major Division. Our manager, a real hothead, was kicked out of the league for asking an umpire to put up his dukes, so I sort of took over the reins the rest of the season. I hit practice balls to the infield, made out a lineup and played myself wherever the heck I wanted. We won two of 20. It was a circus.

The next season a family friend asked me to help coach his team of 11- and 12-year olds in the Westlake Athletic Assn. We won all of our 17 games. It seemed so easy.

No team I’ve coached since has won them all, and while I’ve never had a team with a losing record, championships are infrequent. But I’ve learned the real fun is trying.

Watching a youth whom you taught to lead off first base climb the baseball ladder is also satisfying.

Kurt Stillwell, rookie shortstop for the Cincinnati Reds, played for me in 1977 when he was 12 and I was 19. Also on the team was 11-year-old Scott McIntyre, now a catcher at Cal State Northridge, and no, we didn’t win all our games. Despite Stillwell’s .580 batting average and McIntyre’s six home runs (dubbed Big Mac Attacks), we didn’t even win the pennant. Perhaps that’s the reason I shucked coaching and stuck with writing when it came to choosing a career.

The youth leagues aren’t full of future stars and sons of major league managers, though. You get all kinds, and that’s OK. The kid with an earring, the one with with a bizarre haircut, even the one on probation can play on my team as long he loves baseball.

Individualism and tolerance go hand in hand. Lack of the latter is what I abhor and I require players to speak highly of their teammates. Coming from a large family, the advantages of teamwork were apparent to me early on. I haven’t been more upset than the time I asked a 15-year-old why he wasn’t more supportive of younger players and he replied: “Teammates just let you down. I’d rather water ski or surf.”

Although that comment forced me into the role of disciplinarian, usually a manager is a salesman, giving motivational talks to convince players they are world-beaters. Pitches have to be made by youth coaches to their employers, as well. The sports editor of the Valley Edition was understandably concerned that coaching would interfere with my job, but I reassured him. (“Coaching broadens my perspective , “ I explained . )

And while players aren’t recruited in youth leagues, I had to track down an assistant coach. A friend said he would come out after I did some prodding. I know he’s hooked, though. At a recent game, he commented: “If you don’t like these kids, you’re not a human being.”

In terms of wins and losses, it’s hard to tell how this season will turn out. We aren’t expected to do well because the team is young, but we might surprise some people down the stretch.

In terms of enriching experiences, however, there are only victories. Friendships have developed. Skills have sharpened. And after the last game, we’ll have one heck of a party.