Taking Child’s Play Seriously : Lure of Little League Baseball Snares an Unsuspecting Father

My name is Mike. I am 30 years old, and I am a Little League dad.

It started out as a recreational thing, just some innocent fun. Now I am a Little League junkie.

I am not sure when wailing the fundamentals of baseball at first-graders became a compulsive thing with me, but I remember when I first realized I was addicted. And I know how the habit started.

It started with a 6-year-old named Zach.

Zach was a typical first-year T-ball player. I was an unsuspecting rookie coach. Together, a volatile combination.

We first matched wits in the season opener. I was the first-base coach and, somehow, probably after a combination of errors, Zach managed to reach base.

He was given a few congratulatory pats on the helmet and a relatively simple set of directions: “You know where second base is, right, Zach?” I said, pointing over his right shoulder. “It’s right there. That white thing. That’s where you’re going next, right?”

Zach nodded agreement. The instructions were repeated anyway.

The batter hit one foul, then another. Zach never even flinched as if to run. After each swing, we went over the road map to second base. Each time, Zach nodded.

Finally, a fair ball. “Go!” I yelped, and Zach obligingly bolted from the bag . . . directly down the right-field foul line.

“Zach! Second base! Second base, Zach! Turn left! Turn left!” I bellowed.

Zach, a fairly fast youngster, charged down the line until pausing to shoot a glance back over his shoulder at the mob of coaches, teammates and parents screaming his name.

“Second base, Zach! That way!” We all were motioning like frantic airport ground controllers.

Although Zach had strayed from the base line more than just a tad, an opposing player went through with the formality of tagging him out as he jogged in shallow right-center field.

Incredulous, hoarse and tired, I tried to forget that it was only the first inning of the first game.

A short time later, I approached the team’s manager, a longtime mentor of Little League players who insisted on being called Snoopy.

“We need some baserunning drills next practice,” I rasped.

“Don’t worry. They’ll get better,” Snoopy said, slapping me confidently on the back. “Just hang in there.”

That was 17 months ago. Two full T-ball seasons have passed.

I am certain I have seen it all, yet I have been told many times, and by many people, that I have not.

I have seen kids with $100 gloves, $50 cleats and $100 bats crying rivers after making an error or an out.

I have seen kids equipped with plastic Dodger giveaways and neon-laced high-tops flag line drives and stand frozen with pride until the ball was forcibly disengaged from their fingers.

Little League baseball is an acquired taste, but I now willingly lap it up.

My son, Stephen, is partially to blame. His selection this summer to an “all-star” squad that represented our league in a postseason tournament was the nudge that sent me tumbling over the edge.

Stephen, a slightly built left-hander, almost didn’t play. He was among the youngest and smallest boys chosen for the team, and his mother and I feared for his safety. Tournament games were played with a hardball as opposed to the softer, synthetically coated ball our league used during the regular season.

As an experiment, I led Stephen out to the back yard and flipped a hardball to him. The force of it popping against the pocket of his glove sent Stephen’s arm windmilling backward.

“He’ll be OK,” I told my wife with conviction. “He’ll adjust.”

At the tournament team’s first practice, we met Coach Gary, a young man with a beard who drove a pickup truck that looked as if it doubled as a backstop for batting practice.

Coach Gary related well to the players. He stressed fundamentals and seemed to keep the game in perspective. A normal guy, I thought, until the end of the practice preceding our first game.

“No swimming tomorrow, you guys hear that? No swimming on game day,” Coach Gary instructed. I had heard that one before. But then came the kicker. “And I want you all to eat macaroni and cheese for lunch.”

There was some question about this particular request, but Coach Gary quelled thoughts of insubordination by explaining that macaroni and cheese was high in carbohydrates (“loading up on carbs,” he called it) and guaranteed maximum energy.

We caravaned to the game and by the time we arrived at the park, the other team already was taking infield practice. The shortstop was wearing a uniform I estimated was at least three sizes too big.

This, as any Little League veteran will tell you, was an extremely bad sign. Shortstops with baggy uniforms always field like Ozzie Smith. This one was no exception.

We went out in order in the first inning. They scored six runs. Someone asked in which inning the mercy rule went into effect.

Runs were traded in the middle innings, but we still were on the short end of a 9-2 score when Coach Gary decided he had seen enough. “OK, you guys, no more of this playing around stuff,” he announced. “It’s time to kick some butt!”

His outburst silenced the dugout, but only for a few seconds. “I thought you said to go out and have fun,” one of the players said.

“We’ve had enough fun,” Coach Gary shot back. “It’s time to kick some butt!”

The tough talk fired up the team, but the deficit was still 10-4 going into the final inning. Coach Gary gave his best you-can-do-it, it’s now-or-never speech. He was a Little League coach who used big-league cliches.

Seven runs later, he was a prophet. And a winner. Thanks to five consecutive hits with two out, we won, 11-10.

Stephen was among those who came up with two out. He delivered a two-run single to pull us within a run, then came around to score the tying run.

He was sprinting toward the plate and I was descending from a Toyota jump--both feet in the air, arms raised--when it first struck me. I was one of them-- a totally bonkers Little League parent.

Worse, I didn’t care.

Later, I asked Stephen what was going through his mind during his last at-bat. “That there were two guys out there and I didn’t want to be the last out,” he said.

Heavy stuff. And precisely the same thing I was thinking.

The second game was another one-run victory. That moved us into the quarterfinals against the tournament host, an impressive crew who lined up to do military-like calisthenics before the game.

When it was their turn to hit, we noticed an intimidating string of signs being flashed to the batter by the third-base coach. The ensuing popup was caught in the infield.

“I guess that was the sign for a popup in the infield,” one of our coaches observed. We won again, 8-6.

Next up was the eventual tournament champion. We knew we were in trouble immediately. The only thing worse than a team with a shortstop with a baggy uniform is one whose shortstop wears eye-black.

During introductions, we met the supporting cast. Among them was a kid standing at least 5-foot-2. Someone suggested we ask for a drug test, or at least have the umpire check for razor burns.

We lost, 8-2.

We lost the next game too, 13-4, getting outslugged by the best-hitting team in the tournament. The players handled their elimination admirably. Although there were some tears and a few long faces, most seemed to accept their fate knowing that they had tried hard and played well.

Coach Gary punctuated an upbeat postgame speech with news that the team had won the tournament’s sportsmanship award. “That’s even better than winning the tournament!” one parent chirped. The few kids within earshot gave him a blank stare.

The next day, at an awards ceremony, our players were presented with medallions for their sportsmanship. They wore them proudly, but in our car at least, the ride home was rather solemn. The kid’s career as a T-ball player was over.

“So, Stephen, are you ready to hang up your cleats for this year?” I asked as we neared home.

“Uh-huh.” The answer hit me like a bad hop to the chops.

“Really? So what are you going to do with yourself?”

“I wanna play ball in the front yard.”

“But I thought you said you were ready to hang up your cleats.”

“I have to. Mom won’t let me wear ‘em out front because it tears up the grass.”

I laughed. He smiled. We are hooked and we know it. Next year it’s farm league and we want to kick butt.