My theory of coaching a baseball team of kids is that they have a lifetime to love baseball as long as you don’t make them hate it. In a world of video games and communication through text characters, I considered it an achievement for a kid to stand centerstage in front of a bunch of adults and perform, at any level.
I like the kids who need to compete, but I also like the ones that don’t. We could always find ways to make each other laugh and have fun. I didn’t always have the same experience with the parents.
The first team I coached was my youngest son’s six year old T-ball team. One boy on our team was a head taller than everyone else, faster and a bit more coordinated. He was a shy kid, but he could not hide in the hand shake line at the end of the game.
His dad, who I’ll call Zeus, stood about a head taller than me and was convinced he had sired Willie Mays. His son wore the same “Giants” t-shirt as his teammates, but Willie incarnate came to the field with a hundred-dollar baseball bag on his shoulder. Inside that bag was a hundred-dollar bat to hit the ball off of a tee and a eighty-dollar glove to catch the screaming line drives hit by the merely mortal 6 year-olds he competed against. I would not have known the cost of these thing had the dad not told me. They did not look different from the $25 bat and glove my son and his other teammates used. What was noticeably different were the plush white cotton sweatbands covering the boy’s wrists. They made quite the “I’m special” fashion statement.
Zeus did not trust me, but I did not take it personally. Zeus felt like he was giving precious porcelain to an unqualified fool who had trouble eating with his hands. He obviously did not know me well. My hands had been satisfying my culinary and consumption needs flawlessly for years.
When our kids were at bat, I would stand in the third base coaches box and tend to the players in the game. We recruited a team mom to stay in the dugout with the players waiting their turn, as did all the other teams in our league. Our team mom was a fabulous woman who actually made baseball shaped name cards for the boys and arranged them in batting order so the kids would know who they followed to take their turn at bat.
After our team had finished batting in the second inning of the second game of the season, Zeus was waiting for me at the dugout. I was a little surprised it had taken him that long.
“Coach Carl!” he started, “We need to talk”
I smiled at him and said “What’s on your mind?”
“When the boys were in the dugout last inning, one of the kids was kicking dirt on my son.”
I knew it was time to shut this nonsense down. There were still 16 and a half games to go.
“Oh that’s terrible” I began, “We certainly do not want any confrontation between teammates, not to mention any safety issues…. I’ll tell you what, when the boys come in after this inning, wait here by the dugout and take your son with you over where you’re sitting. Put him on your lap so we are sure nothing happens to him. I’ll make sure to let you know when his turn at bat is coming so he won’t miss it.”
Zeus was caught off guard. “Oh, no, no, really….we don’t need to do anything like that… I just wanted you to know.”
“Oh, Thank you.” I replied. “Please let me know if you notice any other incidents so we can nip them in the bud quickly.”
Zeus brought no other matters to my attention the remainder of the season.
