LITTLE LEAGUE WORLD SERIES : Little League Ain’t What It Used to Be

When I was 11 and played Little League baseball at Homestead (Fla.) Air Force Base, outside a small, almost rural town just south of Miami, I convinced the manager to let me pitch.

Actually, it was more of a threat. My dad was “commissioner” of our league and, well, in the true tradition of an Air Force brat, I name-dropped. A lot. And I kept asking loaded questions, like: “So you mean my dad, a lieutenant colonel, can boss you, a master sergeant, around? Hmmm.”

That sort of thing. It was a truly loathsome tactic, but it worked, and, better yet, my dad never found out.

I was a first baseman, really, a catcher on days our regular starter had piano lessons at the local Catholic school. Now, for the first time in my life, I was a pitcher.

My line score:

I walked seven White Sox in a row, hit another and left the mound in tears before the end of the first inning. Among those calling for my removal was my mom, who later would say she couldn’t stand the sight of pitch after pitch smacking violently against the wire backstop. I protested and pointed out that there was that one pitch that smacked violently against the behind of the White Sox batter.

Afterward, I retreated to the safety of the family Vista Cruiser, face buried in glove, refusing all delicacies offered from the concession stand.

To me, that was Little League baseball. Lemonade made by the shortstop’s mom . . . breaking in a new glove . . . spewing out some mindless infield chatter (“Batter has a toothpick” and, of course, “Your mother wears Army boots”).

There was an innocence connected with it all. High strategy was a sacrifice bunt. You stumbled through the National Anthem. Your biggest concern was whether Coach would spring for hot dogs after the game.

Nowadays, Little Leaguers, like the ones who played in Saturday’s World Series in quaint Williamsport, Pa., use metal bats, which is fine for economy and distance, but hell on infield chatter (“Batter has a heavy aluminum alloy?”)

And whatever happened to charm and naivete?

Earlier in the week, as Northwood Irvine defeated Chesterfield, Ind., to advance to Saturday’s final, many of the players wore these grim, taut looks on their faces, as if large, heaping portions of spinach awaited them if they lost.

One manager went so far as to refer to a player as “the best 11-year-old second baseman in the world.”

A Little Leaguer, when asked about his team’s victory, replied: “This feels so good. I can’t wait till school starts. I’m going to be so popular.”

Another player offered a pregame prediction of, “We’re going to splatter them.”

For me, the Little League World Series grew up this week, and I’m inclined to like the younger version better. I think I decided this shortly after the former major league pitcher, now a television baseball commentator, second-guessed an 11-year-old second baseman’s decision to go for the force at third, rather than home plate. Or maybe it happened when I saw the 12-year-old center fielder spit every 10 seconds or so.

Don’t get me wrong. The Little League World Series is a wonderful event, stuffed with good intentions. According to available figures, 2 1/2 million youths play Little League baseball. Only a precious few will earn a visit to Williamsport’s Howard J. Lamade Stadium. It is a special time, a time to be cherished.

But the fun of something like the Little League World Series is watching imperfection, of young boys doing without raised mounds, split-finger fastballs, emery boards, pine tar. It’s watching baseball in its rawest form, devoid of expectations.

But occasionally, in this mad rush to become and act like adults, kids forget to be kids. Why should they? This week, television viewers were treated to coverage of the semifinals and championship game. All of a sudden, the Irvine manager finds a microphone clipped to his warm-up jacket. Instant replay dissects each ground ball, each botched throw. A former All-American basketball player, employed now as roving reporter for the Series, attempts to create artificial controversies between fans from Chesterfield and Irvine. Or she compares the stadium scoreboard operators to Vanna White and “Wheel of Fortune.” Blah, blah, blah.

The print media had its moments, too. One local newspaper provided readers with detailed profiles of each Irvine player, complete with nicknames, heights and weights.

What’s next, cereal preference?

I was rooting for Irvine. They played hard. They were well-coached.

My favorite scene, this from the semifinal game, was when the Irvine manager, his T-shirt untucked, his belly jiggling slightly, sprinted from the dugout to comfort a player who had been hit by a pitch. As tears crept down the player’s face, the manager rubbed the boy’s back and told him to relax, that everything would be fine. Moments later, the boy stood on first base, bruised, but otherwise OK.

The manager returned to the dugout. He had offered tenderness and support. No “Rub some dirt on it.” No “Whattya, crazy or something? Can’t you see we’re on national television?”

To me, that’s Little League baseball.