His stance was aggressive, maybe too aggressive. His knees were
bent, feet planted wide, shoulders hunched, bat lifted back and high over his
shoulder, giving his entire body the appearance of a rubber-band wound tight,
ready to snap back in a moment. The kids sitting beside me noticed it as well,
and began cheering loudly, “Woo, yeah! Look at that stance!” The cheering
wasn’t sincere, but rather a mockery of a younger player who had committed the
sin of loving the game too much. He was short for his age, and while his peers
had long ago adopted the bean-pole look of late-childhood, he still carried
some extra cushion around the waist and cheeks. He was Pakistani, or Indian, or
Bengali – the mockers beside me didn’t care. They just knew that the time he
spent displaying that stance in the batter’s box came nowhere near the time he
spent practicing it in front of the mirror. This crime of caring too much made
him a loser.
I was
tempted to inform them that this kid, who’s favorite athletes probably
contained more cricket players than baseball stars, had become the surprise of
his last-place team, going three for three at the plate the last time I saw him
play, that in this game, especially at this level, heart often made the
difference. In the end, I didn’t have to. He spoke for himself. His teamed
trailed my son’s by nine runs in the bottom of the last inning. He strutted to
the plate, forcefully smashed his bat into it a few times, endured the
heckling, hit a single, stole second, then third, then scored his team’s first,
and only, run.
Weeks
later, I sat in my folding chair again, watching the same two teams warm-up. .
. for the championship game. Somewhere toward the end of the season the
last-place misfits had found something, and strung together a series of
surprise playoffs wins, advancing all the way to face my son’s team in the
final. They finished their warm-ups, and my son took the field to do the same.
I watched my Jacob scoop up a grounder at third, and launch a rocket. . .
straight into the atmosphere four feet above the first baseman’s head.
Listening to the ball whistle off into the parking lot, I realized that
sometime in the last few months, the last-place team had developed some of the
best fundamental skills in the league. It wasn’t just one or two kids driving
the success. The skill had been written all over their warm-ups. Sure, there
was some fumbling in right field, but our right fielders tended to pay more
attention to the games next door and cars out on the highway. Someone had
coached this team very well.
There
are two ways to coach a youth sports team. A team can be built around a few key
players. That’s how my son’s team worked. The team existed to support three
all-stars, who locked out three key positions in a rotating order. The rest of
the team was a supporting cast. There’s nothing egregious about that. They won
a lot of games and had a great time doing it, but I’d be hard pressed to say my
son left the season a better ball player, or more in love with the game.
The
other approach is to coach the whole team. Finding a coach who does this
is like winning the lottery. It means investing time in a kid who’s probably
never going to hit a home run or strike out the side, and putting them into
game situations which don’t seem likely to bring a win, but allow the child to
develop in skill, character, and love of sport. It’s not coaching for the
scorebook, or the parents, or one or two talented players, or for yourself. It
is coaching for the kids, every single kid on the team. This formerly
last-place team had been coached that way, and it showed not just in their
skill, but in their attitude. They knew each one of them mattered.
The
field cleared, and the coaches met with the umpire as both teams began their
pre-game cheers. Our side began with the borrowed World Cup, “I Believe.” I
expected the other dugout to respond with something along the lines of the
annoyingly catchy, “Scootch Ya Booty Back,” when the field was overcome with a
haunting chant, no words, just the intro to a dated pop song repeated over and
over as each opposing played wrapped his fingers around the chain link, and
like an army refusing to yield, declared that they had come to play. Indeed,
this last-placed team had found something.
But,
this was not going to be the game that rewrote Little League coaching
philosophy for generations to come. Jacob’s team came out swinging, and the
opposition couldn’t contain the onslaught. Our team won by. . . a lot of runs.
I’ve seen my son’s team get blown out enough times to know how hard that can be
for a nine-year-old to swallow. I’ve seen star players throw their gloves,
blame their teammates, even scream at their coaches. While I don’t condone that
behavior, I understand it. There’s a lot of pressure put on some of these kids.
I expected to see a healthy representation of frowns across the way.
As Jacob and his teammates lined up
for victory photos with their trophies, the eerie rhythmic chant of that same
tired old pop song grew from right field and dominated the diamond. Out in the
cold evening grass, arms around shoulders, second-place was a team for a few
moments more. The huddle broke up, some of the boys headed for the parking lot,
more stayed to give hugs to their coach. Eventually, the impressive little
Pakistani player trotted past. I patted him on the shoulder and offered
condolences on a tough loss. He looked up at me with a giant smile on his face,
hands tightly wrapped around his small trophy, “Thanks Mr. Hackman. That was
awesome! We’re totally gonna get you next year!” I believe he just might.
