Since Blue-eyes and I were erstwhile aging athletes, it was only natural that we get the offspring involved in different types of sports. This activity extended itself from the organized local school programs to things such as Little League and tennis. Having resurrected the swimming pool at the New Abode, everybody was a swimmer, even though the water was sometimes a bit chilly. Blue-eyes’ idea of the acceptable water temperature for swimming was around 85°, which our pool rarely met.
We were fortunate in that we were just a few blocks, if you can call our residential area blocks, from a relatively low-key Country Club that featured a bunch of tennis courts, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a rather large equestrian facility. Now, don’t get me wrong! This was not a fancy place and was really very oriented toward family activity. The best part, didn’t cost an arm and a leg. So, somehow, regardless of good old JJ’s attitude about country clubs, we became members. I think it was either Groucho Marx or perhaps WC Fields who said “I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.”
The other neat aspect of our location was we were a very short distance from the three local Little League fields. So naturally, as the curtain climbers began to become interested in a certain level of competitive sports, we got them going on the concept of baseball. I say “concept” because my first experience with Little League was far from what my understanding and past experience of what the game of baseball was all about. I had played organized baseball until I was about 35, and thought I knew a little bit about it, but this did not prepare me for what I was about to face. But that’s another story.
The town we live in has maybe 2500 single-family residences and 10,000 horses, and could be euphemistically defined as a bedroom community, with no retail businesses of any kind. I should qualify that to say that a few years after we moved in, the Sheriff’s Department discovered a “house of ill repute.” I don’t know if that qualifies as retail or not, but I guess you could surmise that there was a certain emphasis on the term “bedroom.” I digress!
This particular Little League franchise was pretty low-key and had been around for a number of years. Because of the limited talent base, they had never really had any inter-league championships. They usually got their butts kicked and eliminated in the first round of regional tournament play. We were surrounded by large communities with multiple franchises, and one of them had nearly gone to the Little League World Series.
With such a small number of families, the league still managed to attract enough kids to form five teams per league. There were three specific leagues, starting with the Minors who were somewhere between 7 and 10 years old. I don’t think there was a lot of attention paid to the lower end of that spectrum because some of those kids were really young. So JJ Junior decided “it” wanted play organized baseball. He was a good athlete, once he made his mind up whether he was to be left-handed or right-handed. And from the time that he was very small, we used to play a lot of “wiffleball” in the backyard along with the other kids in the neighborhood.
So, we went about the process of signing up, paying the fees and during this process, when asked if I would help, made the mistake of saying “Sure, whatever I can do.” The next thing I know this “big guy,” a 6-foot-four character, is at my doorstep with a bag of equipment. I commented “What’s that for?” and he said “I need a manager for one of the teams.” I told him I really didn’t have the time, etc. etc. He said, “Well okay, it’s just interim, until I can find a permanent manager.” He told me there was a meeting at his house the following evening and gave me his address and directions. We chatted for a few minutes and it turned out that he had three sons playing in the league and was also President. Nice guy and too big to argue with. As he walked away, I got this strange feeling that I had just been had, and he was never going to find a manager.
At the meeting, we “new managers” got a Little League rulebook and some quick instructions on the basic philosophy that every kid plays at least two innings. That was a must! Failure to do this meant a forfeiture of whatever game you played, and you would no longer be suitable as a manager. Headlines in the next day’s sports page of the daily newspaper, “JJ gets fired as Little League manager.” Aha! A loophole from which I could weasel out. I guess this was the early stage of “No child left behind,” with little comprehension on my part of the interesting and delightful effects that this would have during the forthcoming season. “Gee Mom, how come I only get to play two innings?” “Well, that’s because you’re a total klutz, Westley.” We were also informed that there would be “tryouts” for the kids the following Saturday, and that we needed to be there for the selection process. “Wow!” I thought. “This almost sounds like a draft.” I was beginning to wonder if they had “signing bonuses.”
The tryouts event was basically an evaluation and ranking of all those kids that showed up. It’s intent was to discover who had a modicum of exposure to the little things like catching, throwing and hitting. Some were seasoned players returning for more outlandish exposure by mostly incompetent coaches. There were about 75 of these pint-sized Babe Ruths, and only about 40% of them had even the slightest clue about the basics, let alone how the game was played.
After watching some of these kids for a half-hour, my candid conclusion was that most of them would visit the hospital before the season was over. A couple of them had a real good shot at accomplishing that before the season even began. As an example, during tryouts at least three kids got hit in the mouth while trying to catch the ball and ended up looking for Mom. One of the kids swung so hard at the ball, he lost the bat and nailed one of the Dads that was doing the pitching. I didn’t blame “slugger,” because this particular guy was a terrible pitcher. Couldn’t get the ball close to the plate. The kid stayed. The Dad left! I later drafted “slugger” simply because I thought he had style, and worst-case was that since most of the kids at the tryout saw this incident, he would scare the hell out of our opposition’s pitchers.
The ranking system was pretty basic; excellent, good, fair and needs work in the various basic skills. After watching these kids I came to the conclusion that they should have one more category, and that should be called “hopeless.” After the tryouts, the managers got together and had what was called a draft. Each team was allocated so many players from the top two categories to provide some degree of parity. The rest were divvied out on something of an equal lack of skill-set basis. What I didn’t know was that a couple of the other returning manager’s drafted players who had not been at the tryouts, and it turned out these kids were “ringers.” So, clearly the games began before the games began. One of the other managers kept muttering, “Just win, Baby. Just win!” I thought maybe he was in wrong sport. I ended up drafting the “big guy’s” youngest son, assuming that with two older brothers he would’ve developed some of the basic essentials. Smart move! His kid turned out to be a real good player.
Now spring training begins! Each team was given a specific day to use the fields for practice, and this of course had to start after school. The weekends were open and each team was given a two-hour time slot. The team names were not taken from animals like the Bad News Bears or the Woeful Wolverines, but were basically major-league names. My little team was the Dodgers. And as it turned out, aptly named, because you really never knew what was going to happen! One of the neat things about this league was the kids all got uniforms, not just shirts, but actual uniforms with the team name. Most of the uniforms were about three or four sizes too big, but that was okay.
Some of the dads on our team volunteered to help me with the practice days, which could be best described as absolute chaos. Practice started with the basics of breaking them up into pairs and having them play catch, which really evolved into most of the kids running after a ball in the outfield because they couldn’t catch it, let alone throw it close enough to their partner so that he could catch it. Everybody wanted to play first base, or be the pitcher or play shortstop. Nobody wanted to be catcher and I couldn’t find an outfielder to save my soul. One kid didn’t want to play anywhere; he just wanted to wear the uniform and bat. He also informed me that he wanted to be an orthodontist. I almost made him team captain.
Batting practice consisted of mainly showing the kids how to stand, how to swing and most importantly – how to get out of the way of the ball when it was headed straight for them. They all had to wear batting helmets, which were about four sizes too big and flopping over their eyes. It didn’t really matter because not many of them hit the ball anyway. I was doing the pitching, underhand, and watching them swing at just about anything, even if I rolled the ball to the home plate. I tried to explain the strike zone and the concept of watching the ball all the way to the plate. I got this message crossed however – one kid just stood there. I stopped and asked him why he let those good pitches go by. He just looked at me and said “I didn’t think I was supposed to swing.” The next pitch – he hit it a ton, took off and rounded the bases, trotting into home. All the kids cheered!
We had about four more practices before our first game started. I found a catcher, JJ Junior, who I’m sure was more than just a little unhappy with the Dodgers management. We had a couple of kids that could at least get the ball close to the plate, but I was convinced that if anybody on the opposing team hit the ball anywhere, it was likely to be a home-run in that our infield had a tough time coping with the concept of fielding a ground ball. Even if they did, it was highly unlikely that they were going to throw it anywhere near the first baseman. I figured we would get beat by 24 to 2, based on the successes of our practices.
We played our first game and I discovered that the other team was as bad as we were. The best description of this game was that if anybody did in fact make contact with the ball, they just kept running until they got to home plate, because nobody could throw the ball successfully to any base. After the first couple of innings, I moved all my outfielders in about 20 feet off the infield grass, assuming if any of the other players hit a fly ball, it was going to be a home-run anyway. I put the would-be orthodontist out in right field, where he promptly sat down and picked grass. “Slugger” actually hit the ball three times, managing to hang onto the bat. The first time though, he was so shocked, he forgot to run to first base and stood there so long – with all of us yelling “run, run!” He eventually took off to third base, assuming if he gets that bag, he would be able to come home. He was eventually tagged out by their center-fielder, five minutes later.
We would end up winning, but not because we were more skillful than our opponents, but because the “big guy’s kid,” whose name was Tom, hit the ball into the outfield with JJ Junior on first because of a walk. The kid in the outfield was so surprised, he stood there and held the ball while those two rounded the bases. I was satisfied with that because I now realized that the other teams had the same problems. At least I knew that the Dodgers would not go 0 and 25. This was just the beginning of a number of years of fond memories, some not-so-fond memories, the development of lifelong friends, three peptic ulcers, and two broken windshields.
Moral of the story – It’s not so much in winning as it is how you played the game, especially if you can’t hit, can’t catch and forget to run to first base.
J.J. Addingnuttin 