Who’s on first?

DODGER manager Joe Torre thinks he has problems? I’ve got 10 kids in camp, three with virtually the same name. Brendan, Brandon and Braden. Nice kids, but I’m constantly calling Braden by some other name. There’s also an Adam, whom I keep calling Alex, and the twins, Connor and Ryan, who only God and their mother can tell apart. Basically, the only people I can identify with any confidence are my own son and my assistant coach James. Or is it Jim?

Joe Torre thinks he has holes in his lineup? I’ve got nobody who can play the hot corner. At least Torre has a couple of stiffs who pretend they can play third base. I’ve got nobody. If the ball is hit to third base, I’ve instructed the players to pick it up, place it in a FedEx envelope and overnight it to first base. FedEx does a nice job, usually. And I have an account there.

Joe Torre thinks he’s under pressure. I’ll show him pressure. The parents decided they wanted the players’ names on all the uniforms, so by the Opening Day ceremony, we have to fit the jerseys to the kids and get their names stenciled on by the cross-eyed goof down at the sporting goods store. Interesting guy, the goof, but he seems constantly overwhelmed. Wait till he sees the request for Brendan, Brandon and Braden. I’ve got 50 bucks says he doesn’t get one of ‘em right. I’ve got 10 bucks says he misspells Chad or Will.

Pressure? I’ll show you pressure. I’ve got only 10 players in camp, most of whom just turned 5 years old, according to their passports and any other falsified documents they showed the league at registration. I think two of them were born last week.

Barely out of diapers, they stand in our germy dugout, cheering for the other team. Can you image that? Sportsmanship in an American ballpark. What is this nation coming to?

“How do the Blue Jays look?” someone asks.

Well, we’ve got that hole at third, and the players’ pants keep falling down because they have 12-inch waists and no hips, sort of like Nicole Kidman. One mom suggests double-sided fashion tape. This being L.A., one of the dads happens to have some in his purse.

How’s the defense looking? Well, except for Tommy (and Tommy’s dad), the Blue Jays don’t have a single player who can catch a baseball with his fingers pointed up toward Jupiter, the way a catch should be made. They all think they’re Willie Mays and try to catch it in the basket, as if cradling a frog. If the ball comes at them high and tight, right for their nose, they just duck.

“Men, I want those fingers up. Fingers up! Fingers up!” I yell across our little version of Vero Beach. The parents probably hear it in their sleep. Fingers up!

“Men, this is how you hold a baseball,” I show the kids. “If you palm it, what’s that?”

“A change-up?” one of the dads says.

“That’s right,” I say. “We don’t want our infielders throwing change-ups to first.”

“Wow, you’re old-school,” my assistant coach says.

Not always. For instance, most teams run the bases in a counterclockwise rotation. Not us. We sometimes go from home to third to second to first. Other times, if the mood strikes us, we go straight from third to the dugout, without touching home plate. It’s as if we’re reinventing the game, sprucing it up a bit, ridding it of its rough edges.

They aren’t even in kindergarten, these Blue Jays, and their centers of gravity are between their eyes (think Luke Walton).

Occasionally, the boys just spontaneously fall over, which they all find hugely entertaining. They are so slight, so ice-pick skinny, that I’m in constant danger of losing them in the tall outfield grass.

But there are other times, when everything is going well, and the sun shines and nobody forgets his shoes . . . times when it all comes together just as great ballclubs should.

There are times, when the hits keep coming -- bam, bam, bam -- and the kids round third, heading for home, tongue out, arms churning, with the best, biggest smiles you ever saw in your life. Completely in the moment. Completely in the game.

“Blue Jays never give up,” the little guy reminds me every day.

Thank goodness.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.