Hardball in the Suburbs

Take me out to a Little League ballgame, with banners flapping above the cinder-block scorer’s box, and the outfield fence plastered with the billboards of plumbers and chiropractors. Hang a pale sun low behind right field, and put a little bite in the early evening breeze. Fill the diamond with skinny boys on the cusp of adolescence. Sometimes they move with the grace of their professional idols. At other times they are mere children, voices cracking into high squeaks as they call for a cutoff.

The bleachers behind home plate are crowded with parents, for what would Little League be without the parents? Probably just kids playing baseball on some weedy lot. Parents provide the fine, pinstriped uniforms and the manicured fields. They bring a certain electricity to the game, and also--on this day, anyway--much noisy instruction.

“Come on, Hot Rod,” a father screams as a boy steps up to bat with two runners on base. “You the man, Hot Rod.” Other parents join in, sensing a rally. Hot Rod slashes a foul. “Good hack, Hot Rod.” The chants grow louder. Hot Rod swings and misses. “You the man, Hot Rod.” Hot Rod swings, misses again, trudges head down back to the dugout.

The parents watch in silence.

*

This is last Thursday, and the all-stars of Woodland Hills and Thousand Oaks are engaged in the finals of a sectional tournament. The parents of these neighboring baseball precincts, if not the players, consider themselves bitter rivals. They shoot death stares at one another through sunglasses. A few even taunt the opposing children.

“He’s neeerrvvoouusss,” a Woodland Hills mother sings out as a Thousand Oaks batter asks for time.

“That’s a balk!” a father hollers toward the pitching mound, where the Thousand Oaks pitcher tugs nervously at his cap. “He’s done it five times already. Get him a pitching coach.”

In lulls these parents talk dreamily of Williamsport, Pa., the promised land of Little League. Typically, the Little League World Series ends with the American representative getting whomped by a team of suspiciously oversized foreigners. This, however, does not diminish the allure. Making it to Williamsport offers glory enough. The games are televised, with plenty of up close and personal features on the American players and their supportive parents. The hometown throws a welcoming parade, after the team appearance on Leno.

“With Junior,” a Woodland Hills dad says with a mixture of anger and regret, “we’d be going to Williamsport, no doubt about it.”

Junior is Junior Garcia, a gangling 12-year-old with a fuzzy mustache, a prodigious bat and notoriety. Junior has been in the news: He and a teammate were disqualified amid accusations they had been recruited by Woodland Hills from outside its boundaries. Ringers. Now Junior sits outside the fence, taunting the Thousand Oaks left-fielder. His pinstriped jersey hangs in the dugout, a totem of inspiration.

*

People familiar with Southern California Little League are not exactly surprised by this latest recruitment controversy. They know it’s not the first, and they understand the dynamics. See, the emerald grasses of Williamsport are not some faraway, unreachable Oz for the top teams of the Southland, the nation’s baseball hotbed. They begin each season with good reason to believe that, with just one more 12-year-old fastballer, one more big stick, this year it’s Williamsport here we come. Imagine the temptation. Imagine the pressure.

For the players the pressure is a palpable burden, blown down from the bleachers by the husky lungs of their parents. It’s the fourth inning, and a Thousand Oaks player takes a fastball for a strike.

“Swing the bat,” the dads and moms bellow as one.

“Get your head in the game.”

The boy looks up, winces. The next pitch is a slow curve. Determined not to take another strike, the batter swings way too early.

“You got to want it.”

“Step up in the box.”

Now he flails at another slow curve, and having struck out, he tears up, his face mottled. The crowd turns its attention to the next little batter.

“Step up in the box, Chad.”

“Watch out for the hook, Chad.”

Ah yes, the demon curveball. Let this end with a little hook of my own. Say the obvious about these parents, about the undeniable silliness of adults who over-invest their own ego in the play of their children. In fairness, though, which is the greater sin? To bear down too hard on a child, to be there too much, or the more common parental offense of not being there at all? Tell us, Hot Rod, tell us. You the man.