The Boys of Summer : They’ll Come to Know What Matters Has Nothing to Do With a Score

By now, someone has no doubt explained to the South Mission Viejo Little League team that the pain goes away. It really does.

In fact, as resilient as youngsters are, the hurt from Saturday’s loss in the Little League World Series championship game probably began subsiding about the time they were midway through that first piece of post-game pepperoni pizza. By then, they were probably well into the stories of how much fun the season was, how exciting it was to play on national TV and how that last half-inning against the team from Guadalupe, Mexico, just really stunk.

What the lads might not realize, however, is that they are now teammates for life. Each of them might make a ton of friends over the next 50 years, but they’ll only have one set of teammates who were with them for that fine, fine summer in 1997 when they made it all the way from Orange County to Williamsport. What they don’t know today is that the final score from Saturday will become less important as the years go by.

In fact, would someone please tell the boys that it’s almost more heroic to lose a game like that than to win? I didn’t say it’s more fun; only that tough ones like that are the kind they’ll be talking about for a long time.

We adults know that, but how do you explain it to a kid who’s just had his heart broken?

We could begin by telling them how much we understand the pressure they were under. We could tell them that we got most of our enjoyment not from who won or lost but from watching them play the best they could. They may brush that off, but that’s when we have to drill into their heads the virtues of playing hard and playing fair and convincing them that someone always has to lose.

And convince them that, in the grand scheme of things, we don’t care. Young boys and girls in competition at this age hate to lose, but it seems to me that what they hate more is to disappoint. They don’t want to let down their parents and teammates and certainly not their coach. I think that’s the point of origin of the quivering lips and the tear-stained cheeks.

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That’s why adults are so critical to Little League success or failure. Mission Viejo Manager Jim Gattis did at least a couple things Saturday that warmed my heart. As a coach’s son, I know the potential characteristics of that breed of cat. They can be a tad temperamental and unkind if things don’t go their way.

It sounded all too familiar when, between innings in the middle of the game, Gattis got on his catcher for not relaying the signs quickly enough to the pitcher. “You were looking up at the stands last inning,” Gattis scolded. “Who were you looking at? Your mom?”

Aside from being a quintessential Little League moment, it captured Gattis’ intensity. Ah, you might say, he’s the peevish type. But it’s dangerous for outsiders to judge how a coach treats his players. Sometimes the bond between coach and player is understood only by them, and not by us. Ideally, the coach knows what buttons to push, how far to go.

Crunch time, though, is what separates the real coaches from the pretenders. Crunch time is when everything you’ve hoped for as a coach may be slipping through your fingers. For Gattis, that came in the sixth after his relief pitcher in that fateful final inning had unraveled. With the season possibly about to end on a dreadful note, Gattis tossed out a gem: As he changed pitchers, he told the boy who had just given up the tying home run (and who appeared to be fighting tears), “I want you to go to shortstop, because you’re a great shortstop.”

“You’re a great shortstop.”

Pure class. A lot of coaches wouldn’t have thought of that.

Then, as the game that had appeared all but won was lost, Gattis again came through for his team. Gone was the scolding and furrowed brow. Instead, with his players experiencing one of the worst moments of their lives, he was as calm as could be, clapping his hands for them as they trudged off the field and, in effect, telling them: “It’ll be all right.”

Those are the kinds of moments, I think, these players will remember throughout their lives. They may wince in the years ahead when they recall the final score, but they’ll remember a coach who, wanting to win just as much as they did, came through in the clutch.

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Is there anything else to take away from Mission Viejo’s bout with destiny?

Sure. The boys let us divert our attention, if only for a while, to sport the way we say we want it--played not for profit or fame, but for the joy and sense of achievement that competition breeds. We won’t remember these Little Leaguers’ names after a while, but we will remember the emotion, the purity of their effort and the honesty of their reactions.

Like the rest of us, they’ll grow up and take their place in the adult world. But for one afternoon in Williamsport, under ridiculous pressure and incredibly high stakes, they were our real boys of summer.

Before the game, Gattis was asked whether all of this was too much for 12-year-old boys. He thought not. “They’re 12-year-olds,” Gattis said, “but for the two hours they play, they’re young men.”

I understand his point, but I still like the camera shots that show boys with braces and with their lower lips vibrating. The shots of young boys playing the great game of baseball.

And, yes, whether the coach approves or not, I also love the idea of catchers in the biggest games of their lives looking up in the stands to see their moms.

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The Coaches

The coaching staff of the South Mission Viejo All-Stars:

Manager Jim Gattis, 44: A baseball coach in the college ranks turned businessman, Gattis, as All-Star manager, has said he’s “living a dream.” He managed in the minor leagues for eight seasons, where his teams included major leaguers Eric Karros of the Dodgers and Luis Gonzalez of the Houston Astros. He opened an espresso cart in Orange County in 1990, then started MJ’s, a cafe in Irvine. He also was the pitching coach at Saddleback College. Gattis’ son, Gary, plays first base.

Coach Ed Sorgi, 42: Sorgi is a sales manager who has been active in Little League about seven years and helped the Mets clinch the district tournament of champions. Sorgi’s son, Adam, is on the All-Star team. Daughter Erica is a national 3-meter diving champion.

Coach Allen Elconin, 47: Elconin is a former Angel broadcaster whose job as voice of the Angels ended Oct. 4, 1992, after nine years. Fans knew him by his professional name, Al Conin. Since then he has called some San Diego Padres games on radio and television. Elconin’s son, Adam, hit a homer in the U.S. championship victory.