In the 20 years I spent coaching baseball, my teams earned a trophy or two, while I earned my share of enemies. I can only hope that many of those enemies still spit up reflux on the rare occasions my name is mentioned. Bitter parents and scheming coaches rarely forget and almost never forgive. Kids, on the other hand, usually have a life.
This would be a good time to tell the story of the Falling Down Play and its many ethical and practical implications. Sadly, however, I know that what everyone wants to hear about is The Incident, so the FDP will have to wait.
at the age of 10 I was kicked out of the Cub Scouts for my intractable cynicism.
Ah, The Incident. Many of my bitter adversaries are probably still gleeful about that time — the only time, but no one mentions that — I was ejected from a game. And yet they can’t possibly be as gleeful about it as I am. Any tinhorn martinet can avoid being tossed. To get ejected from a game, a guy has to speak truth to power — and be right. The way I was raised, those are the First and Second Commandments, as well as the only two commandments.
You should know that at the age of 10 I was kicked out of the Cub Scouts for my intractable cynicism. My father tried to scold me, but pride was written all over his pursed lips. No one hated authority more than my dad, just as no one would have had more contempt for the unctuous coaches who flattered umpires or asked about their families or in some other way displayed — for lack of a better word — respect. It sickens me just to think about it, and for that I am grateful to the old man.
In fact, my father’s last words, spoken to a nurse in the memory care unit, came as he condemned an evening meal. “I don’t eat shit like that,” he said. I am pretty sure he was invoking e e cummings, whose conscientious objector Olaf said, “There is some shit I will not eat.”
Admittedly, the old man wasn’t much for metaphors, so maybe he wasn’t channeling the great poet. All I know is that he took orders with complete obedience when he was in the Army. Saving the world demanded nothing less. But when World War II was over, so was my dad’s willingness to accept authority.
I believe that I have now provided the context in which The Incident can be fully appreciated. So let us look back some 20 years, to a mid-summer afternoon when my nemesis, the Tin Man, decided to show me a thing or two. Chest protector and face mask in place, he was watching a fly ball as he tried to wrap his meager mind around one of the rule book’s most subtle provisions: the Infield Fly Rule.
You don’t need to understand the rule in order to appreciate this tale. But just to refresh memories…with runners on first and second, or first, second and third, and less than two outs, the umpire invokes the Infield Fly Rule if a fly ball can be caught with ordinary effort by an infielder. As soon as the umpire realizes such a catch can be made, he or she yells out the call, and the batter is automatically out. The runners can return to their bases without risk of being thrown out, although they can try to advance at their own risk.
But you knew that. My players — nine- and 10-year-olds — knew that. And the important point here is that your obstreperous monographist knew the rule and the umpire did not.
The odds, after all, are that the ump would get one thing right just by accident.
Bases loaded. One out. Batter hits a pop-up. As the Tin Man hopes desperately for a few synapses to fire, he says nothing. Meaning that he does not invoke the Infield Fly Rule. Which is good, because the ball, which is hit about ten feet behind second base, can’t be caught with ordinary effort by an infielder — at least not by a nine-year-old infielder. However, after the ball lands safely, and my kids are in the process of running around the bases, the umpire decides that, on second thought, he’d like to invoke the rule. This cannot be done. It violates the heart and soul of the rule — which is that it has to be invoked while the ball is in the air — and, besides, it’s pretty clear the ball couldn’t be caught with ordinary effort because it wasn’t. Then — yes — Tin Man sends my kids back to their previous base, which, of course, also violates the provision that they can advance at their own risk.
I politely inform the umpire that he has embarrassed himself (if that is, indeed, possible), assuming he will yield to a superior intellect. But stupid wants what stupid wants, and he demurs. So I turn to sarcasm, informing Tin Man that he has earned a place in the Umpire Hall of Fame by making three mistakes with one ruling. This, I suggest, has never been done at any level of baseball. An umpire, I explain, would not only have to be completely ignorant of the rules but be very lucky to hit that trifecta. The odds, after all, are that the ump would get one thing right just by accident.
He tells me to leave the field. Of course, I say; but I first inform him that he is even luckier than he thought, because the rulebook allows him to correct this absurd series of mistakes. He then pulls the old Chest Bump trick, thinking he will intimidate me. I, in turn, offer to pay the postage so that he can send his face mask to the Little League Museum, in Williamsport, Pa.
Unable to match wits with me — or any adult not on life support — he ejects me from the game. And the crowd goes wild! Partly hidden by some bushes behind home plate, I watch the remainder of the game as I pretend to be desperate to avoid his gaze. My kids and their parents find this hilarious; the outraged parents of the opposing team summon vast stores of bilious indignation. Occasionally, and with a great show of exaggeration, I pretend to be flashing signs to my kids. (We have no signs.)
Two postscripts: (1) We won the game; (2) a week or two later, Tin Man physically attacked another protesting coach. Speculation around the league (which I encouraged) was that The Incident had caused Tin Man to become deranged.
This might have been the end of it, except that a few weeks later, another umpire, obviously inspired by The Incident, accused me of failing to instill in my charges a respect for authority. This was after one of my players apparently directed an expletive at the ump. As it happened, this was an unbalanced little fellow whose parents had kicked him out of the house. Now, that’s authoritarianism. I guess I recoiled at the notion that I was supposed to make the kid march in lockstep and click his heels. So, words were exchanged and perhaps I said something about not respecting him or authority.
You cannot demand respect; you can only demand that people pretend to respect you.
Now, what about the Falling Down Play? I guess that will have to wait until next week. So, in the meantime, allow me to end on a more upbeat note.
There are all sorts of good things that can happen when kids play sports. They can begin to understand the value of teamwork. They can learn that through repetition and sheer persistence, they can get better at something. They can have fun.
But respect for authority? Hey, I knew coaches who said things such as, “I demand respect from my kids.” Which is absurd. You cannot demand respect; you can only demand that people pretend to respect you. Which, of course, suits the authoritarian mind just fine. And, no doubt, the authoritarian coach is teaching kids how to be hypocrites — a lesson that may well lead to prosperity and power.
Now, I understand that many umpires and referees know the rules and enforce them fairly. I also appreciate the value of civility. But if you’ve been paying attention to what’s going on all around us these days, don’t you think that blind acceptance of just about any authority is a dangerous thing?
Think about it. That’s all I ever asked of my own kids. Just think about it.
