When we last met, I was making unsubtle references to the cozy relationship between Little League and authoritarianism. Some background is in order.
My introduction to the Teutonic mentality of the erstwhile (if largely archaic) baseball franchise came when I was allowed to coach a ghost team that consisted of 12 lads who had been rounded up to serve as easy meat for the other seven teams in the league.
The other coaches, upon seeing that the league was one mentor short, proceeded to draft the players they desired — leaving my son and the other athletes to form a veritable Despondent Dozen.
Seeking to further doom our team’s chances, the parents of our athletes weren’t informed that their kids had been “drafted” until a few days before play commenced. The other teams had been practicing for two or three weeks when I was informed that — presumably by a 4-3 vote — I would be allowed to coach the ghost team. I was an excellent choice (from their perspective) because I was three weeks away from leaving for Florida, where I would have to sweat out the summer as a writer-producer of a kids’ show being taped in Orlando.
Extra credit to kids who are willing to move the batter off the plate and maybe plunk any kid with the temerity to hit the long ball
All was not lost. We had three or four talented players who had been ignored because they were among the most diminutive of the draftees. Little League coaches, in the spirit of authoritarianism, tend to be size kings. They like big kids who look menacing in the batter’s box and throw the ball hard. Extra credit to kids who are willing to move the batter off the plate and maybe plunk any kid with the temerity to hit the long ball.
Our kids did not hit the long ball.
Our one pre-season practice was predictably horrifying, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. They were excited about getting their first real uniforms, which carried the slightly torn and soiled banner of a St. Louis Park institution, Foot Clinic. Because all teams should have a nickname, we decided that we would be called the Bunions. The kids assumed we were named after that goliath of Minnesota mythology, Paul Bunyan. But this was no time for irony. The aspiring athletes were ready to roll up their sleeves — and their pants cuffs — and get to work.
The Despondent Dozen had to open the season against a team of behemoths whose coach had a propensity for drafting hockey players. Hockey players, I soon learned, were dangerous hitters and pitchers at the age of nine because they’d been playing sports competitively — and to the tune of bloodthirsty onlookers — since the age of…what? Five?
In other words, they peaked early.
Our opponents were ahead by maybe 15 runs when tragedy struck (them) in the fourth inning. My son Max — unbeknownst to the other coaches — was the fastest kid in the league and he broke up the no-hitter when he easily reached first on a bunt. So emotionally damaged were the opposing players that their coach paused the game to convene an infield support group consisting of all nine kids on the field. I can only imagine the trauma that ensued when my son stole second and then third and then scored on a ball that got a few feet past the catcher.
She yelled to our players: “Don’t let them rob you of your self esteem.” Absurd, and yet timely
But we were making progress. We scored two runs in the next game, and there was a note of levity, thanks to a team mom who was a New Age émigré from California. As our ship was sinking, she yelled to our players: “Don’t let them rob you of your self esteem.” Absurd, and yet timely. Footnote: the woman had (of course) worked as an actress in L.A. and word spread quickly that she could be glimpsed topless in a well-known comedic vehicle. This was back in the days when people rented movies from neighborhood video stores. As I recall, I was wait-listed for months before I could finally get a look at the film. The hysteria among the team fathers was, while somewhere between absurd and pathetic, enough to get some of the dads to attend a few of the games. Hooray for Hollywood.
In our next practice, I gathered my feckless charges and informed them that we were going to practice base-running, on the off chance that one of our athletes should reach first base. By the time I got home, Ms. New Age had left an angry message on my voicemail. Something to the effect that I had robbed her son of his self esteem.
Tension mounted as we approached our third game. I was never a laid-back coach. All my players got equal time in the field, but I believed that it was generally better to win than to lose. And I figured this third game might be our one chance, if only because I would be leaving for Orlando the next day.
There were, however, a couple of problems. First, he tired easily. Second, he didn’t want to pitch
As it turned out, this was one of those perfect storm moments. First, the opposing coach was a terrific guy who mostly wanted his kids to have fun. And we had discovered that we had one kid, the especially diminutive Lenny, who could pitch a little. There were, however, a couple of problems. First, he tired easily. Second, he didn’t want to pitch. But thanks to Lenny, we went to bat in the bottom of the fourth with the score tied at 3.
There were, in theory, two more innings left. But hope was in the sky. Dark clouds — we are not speaking metaphorically here — were rolling in. I thought I felt a drop or two. We could hear the sound of distant thunder. Our first two batters struck out, but our next hitter, Finklestein, coaxed a walk. “Coaxed” might not be entirely accurate. Finky didn’t quite know what to do with the bat, probably because he had never held one before. But he was smart enough to never actually swing, so there he stood at first, anxious and bewildered.
Next came my son, who looped one down the right field line. We watched in amazement as Finky started to run. He didn’t seem to know where he was going, but he heard his teammates yelling so he kept running and eventually he found third. My son, meanwhile, slid into second. Our next batter, the son of the actress, swung wildly at the first pitch. I was coaching third and trying to give him some advice, but his mom, the soft-core actress, was feeding him some equally soft-core psychology and the poor lad was lost in the cross-talk. He was headed toward a three-pitch strikeout and many years of therapy.
We had just one more shot. I looked at Max and he gave me a subtle nod. It was go time.
My progeny got about a third of the way to third when he stopped, started back to second, and fell down
The next pitch was a soft-toss down the middle of the plate and the poor kid flailed again, but it didn’t matter. This was an all-or-nothing moment, and my son made the most of it. As the ball hit the catcher’s mitt, Max started for third. Suddenly his teammates were yelling at him. What the hell was he doing? The catcher was just as confused as Max pretended to be. My progeny got about a third of the way to third when he stopped, started back to second, and fell down.
And the catcher bought it. He threw the ball — into center field — and Finky, with perhaps just a slight nudge from me, ran home, with my son not far behind him. We had our first and final lead of the season.
Next came the inevitable strikeout, followed by the wonderful sizzle of lightning somewhere past center field. The kids didn’t know it, but because the game had gone four innings, it was official: We had won! A perfect storm, indeed. (And, yes, the only win of the season.)
We never did tell the kids that they had witnessed the legendary Falling Down Play. Even the parents were fooled. Except, of course, for one mother who, for the first time, flashed me a warm smile as we gathered for our ceremonial Freezie. That woman didn’t know baseball, but she knew bad acting when she saw it.
