Of bubblegum and ballgames

It WAS, EVEN FOR US, a memorable season. I spent most of it in the third-base coach’s box giving indecipherable signals to nervous batters. I’d tug at a sleeve. Rub my belly. Took the girls several games to realize I just had a rash that wouldn’t go away. The “signals” merely meant that the Neosporin wasn’t working.

“Lay off the high ones,” I’d yell while scratching my chest. The batter would nod and go to work.

When things went well, runners would flock to the bases like bees to magnolia blossoms. One time, there were three of them at second base at once -- exchanging pleasantries, catching up on their summer plans. Till I yelled, “RUN! RUN!” and jumped up and down like there were gophers in my pants. Leave it to a coach to spoil all the fun.

“RUN!!!” I screamed as the big vein on my neck throbbed and my mustache turned the color of battleships. “What do they pay these coaches?” the players must’ve wondered. “Must be a ton.”

Fortunately, the girls did what they were told, as girls sometimes do, scattering in opposite directions, a clown car of confusion. Should’ve been carrying toy horns and exploding cigars.

So long, softball season. It’s the chaos we’ll miss the most.

IT ALL BEGAN innocently enough, at a February draft, eight coaches with morning hair seated around a table late at night. For eight people trying to kill one another, we were all very civil.

“I need Marisa,” Coach Brian told the group. “If I don’t get Marisa on the team ... “

The coaches nodded sympathetically. I think only one scoffed, which is pretty good in a room full of coaches. If you say anything at all under those conditions and only one person scoffs, you’ve done well.

“I need Katie too,” Brian said. “If I don’t get Katie ... “

When it was over, each coach came away with a full team. Ours looked particularly strong: 10 confessed anarchists, some of whom had done time. We named our team the Morgan Fairchilds, gutsy little femme fatales with a deep appreciation for the powers of good mascara and a toothy smile.

“Hands to the ball!” Coach Steve would yell at practices.

“And lay off the high ones,” I’d say.

“OK, coach!” they’d yell back, without the slightest clue as to what we were talking about.

I explained to them how softball is the opposite of life. In softball, you can steal stuff (bases) and crush things with bats (balls and insects). When it was appropriate, you could belly-flop in the dirt and wipe your nose with your sleeve. When other people failed, you could cheer. They seemed to like that part the most.

We began our first game with a little red-haired batter at the plate, no taller than a bottle of gin. Her at-bats lasted longer than many marriages. The little girl would look over at me. Squint. I’d give her a sign. She’d take a practice swing. Look again. Squint. I’d re-give her the sign. It was like being in a confessional with Paris Hilton. “We done yet?” I’d wonder. She’d look over. I’d give her the sign.

In the end, the Morgan Fairchilds did quite well, thank you very much. Fourteen wins. Couple of losses. A lot of sun. Swallowed our share of sunflower seeds and Bazooka bubblegum too. Some of these kids may never be regular again.

NOW WE ARE standing in someone’s backyard, saying goodbye to the team at the year-end party. In the kitchen, the margarita blender churns like an Evinrude. If anyone lights a match, we’ll all be dead.

“I remember the first time I saw you coach,” one dad says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, a couple of years ago,” he says. “You were lying in the grass near first base. I think you were sleeping.”

“That was me,” I say.

Funny, the things you remember. Back then, the girls could go only to first, no matter how far they hit the ball. Those were the rules. It was a bad year for first-base coaches. A good year for sleep.

This season, the girls played real softball. They kept score. They slid hard. They cried when they lost and sometimes when they won. Tonight, we’re honoring them appropriately. I begin the presentations.

“First, we’d like to raffle off this baby,” I say, gesturing to the 1-year-old circling his poor mother’s chair. “If you’ll just get out your tickets.... “

The awards go fast. I say something nice about Caitlin. She smiles. I say something nice about Holly. She beams. I tell the girls how, as they get older, they’ll talk about “the good old days,” a concept they have yet to even consider.

“Well, for me and Coach Steve, these are the good old days,” I tell them.

They sit quietly for once, not knowing exactly what to say.

Well, I do: Thanks, kids. Every wonderful one of you.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.