If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Go for the Lexus

We have resorted now, in the summer of our discontent, to hitting fly balls to the little girls in our pregame warmups and offering them Buicks and other big-ticket items when they make good plays. Corvettes. Jaguars. A nice dining room set. In the suburbs, it is important to establish values, even at an early age.

“You win a Lexus,” I tell Taylor when she makes a good catch.

“I won a Lexus!” Taylor screams.

And the other girls line up as well.

Erika catches a pop fly and wins a BMW. DeDe fields a hard grounder and receives a Porsche.

“Can I have a pony?” Coach Lorraine asks.

“A pony?”

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted a pony,” she explains.

“Get out there,” I say, gesturing to the outfield, at which point she gives up on the pony and goes over to mingle with the other moms.

“No wonder she doesn’t have a pony,” I mutter and pick up another softball.

*

Ten minutes into the pregame drill, I give up on the cars and start giving away long-term municipal bonds and a couple of nice annuities.

For some reason, this doesn’t excite the players as much as the cars did. Coach Dave, the CPA, says muni bonds are always a sound investment. But the girls lose focus.

“OK, into the dugout,” I yell.

This is THE BIG GAME. The game against the team with Abby and Amanda, the twins with the golden arms and the pretty mom we tried to draft but couldn’t.

Our team, the Killer Ks, has prepared all season for this game, in the same way USC prepares for Notre Dame. In the way the Hatfields prepare for the McCoys.

“You bring the gum?” I ask Coach Bill quietly.

“Right here,” he says, patting his pants pocket.

Here’s the deal. We don’t just give out the gum. We make our players earn the gum.

If the girls make it to third base, Coach Bill will reward them with a piece of Bazooka, hard as cement. In the suburbs, it is important to establish a good fee-based work ethic, even at an early age.

“Can I have some gum?” Coach Lorraine asks.

“You have to reach third,” I tell her.

The game starts out well. In the first inning, Coach Linda drops off a gigantic bag of French fries, upon which the girls descend like poodles on a pork chop--grabbing them by the fist load, then shoving them in their mouths with their palms.

As a coach, I’m pretty proud of the way they eat. They eat like I do, a thousand calories a bite. Amid all this, we collect a couple of hits but no runs.

“OK, everybody in the field,” I say.

“Can I pitch?” Elizabeth asks.

“No,” I say.

“Can I play first base?” Ani asks.

“No,” I say.

“Can I have a pony?” Coach Lorraine asks.

“No,” I say.

Like most of our games, this one is full of exciting sidelights. In the second inning, I enter the dugout and trip over four or five softball bats. For 10 seconds, I’m like someone in a logrolling competition.

“What’s your dad doing?” one of the players asks the little girl.

“I think he’s dancing,” the little girl says.

“He’s a good dancer.”

“Thanks,” the little girl says proudly.

By the third inning, we are down two runs and starting to worry.

Coach Bill and I stand at the dugout door, watching third strikes whiz by our batters.

“Nice try,” we lie with each strikeout, then grab our heads with both hands and spin around. “Nice try.”

I’m pretty sure lightning won’t ever kill me. I’m pretty sure rap music won’t kill me. Or even Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

What will kill me is watching third strikes go by without our batter swinging. That might kill me.

“It’s just a game,” Coach Bill assures me.

“It is?” I say.

Last week, I told Coach Bill that softball was just a game. In the suburbs, it’s important to establish some perspective, even when you’re over 40.

But this is THE BIG GAME. So it’s not a game.

“It’s not just a game?” he asks.

“Ever hear of sweeps week?” I explain to Coach Bill, a professional actor.

“Now I get it,” he says.

So we lean against the dugout, getting older with each failed swing. I grow a little shorter. Coach Bill grows a little skinnier. One more strikeout, and I’m pretty sure all the capillaries in my nose will burst.

“You believe in miracles?” I ask him between innings.

“Of course,” he says.

Someone once said that love is seeing a miracle in someone that no one else sees. Today, Bill and I see a miracle in the Killer Ks.

The kids have their imaginary cars. We have our imaginary endings, full of bloop hits and improbable home runs.

“What’s the score?” Coach Bill asks at the top of the fourth.

“Tied,” I say.

“Tied?” he says excitedly.

So we put on our rally caps and go to work. Kirby singles. Anna doubles. Melissa singles. Kaitlin scores.

In the dugout, the Killer Ks are dancing around and bouncing off the chain-link, stomping on the metal bench, swallowing their gum. Coach Bill is putting on weight again. I’m a little taller.

“OK, who’s up next?” I say.

“That’s it,” the umpire says.

“That’s it?”

Apparently, the Killer Ks have run out of outs. Miracles, too. Today, there will be no come-from-behind victory. No Buicks. Not even a nice Ford Taurus.

Final score: Marlins 9, Killer Ks 7.

“You know, it’s just a game,” I assure Coach Bill.

“It is?” he says.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.