Indians on the Warpath – Revisited

The Indians had clinched the first half, three games in front of the second-place team. The Red Sox were at the bottom, having only won a single game. JJ had turned down multiple contract offers from Cleveland. I jest! The unauthorized use of the protective cup for the purpose of drinking Gatorade or any other substance was deemed inappropriate and frowned upon by our illustrious league Board of Directors. Once the word got out about the Red Sox little prank, the other teams decided that this was singularly the most appropriate use of this particular type of device, and unfortunately the concept spread to the minor league as well. Everybody was drinking something from their protective cups.

The fable of the Dodgers using the jockstrap as a slingshot, or worse, was revived and reenacted a number of times creating another dilemma for the President. The ”Wild Bunch” was notified that there will be no more dried peas allowed in any of the dugouts. This last decision irritated me because it was going to reduce the yield of fresh peas next spring. Clearly, the Board of Directors had no sense of humor! There was no mention of expectoration, but I think there were hopes that the Indians would come down with multiple cases of the “dry mouth syndrome.” And finally, my worst nightmare, Miss Congeniality was now a member of the Board. The Gods are frowning on me!

The Wild Bunch, the tribe, otherwise known as the Indians, were now known as those “rather rowdy kids” that just kept winning. We lost one 11-year-old to a broken arm and had to draft a 10-year-old because it was mandated. He was a good, hard-working kid, but his skill set was extremely limited, and he was relegated to becoming a two inning player. The problem was that his father had been a college and minor-league baseball player in his youth and his vicarious expectations for its son’s performance exceeded his kid’s level of interest, at this particular time. Early on, I got a lot of advice and I invited him to become an assistant coach. Naturally, he was too busy. Coincidentally, we both worked for the same company, but did not know each other. I did some checking and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t clear what he was too busy doing.

“Prima” was coming through like gangbusters and I had him batting in the fifth spot. In the first four games he hit five home runs, four of which went over the right-field fence. Granted, it was a short fence, but still pretty impressive stuff. After that, the other teams really wouldn’t pitch to him if there were runners on base. He was starting to get frustrated and I told him that if the ball was close, go ahead and take a shot at it, and I didn’t really care if he struck out swinging. He did, and he hit some balls that were beyond me how he could’ve reached them, let alone hit it, but he did. He and JJ were probably the best hitters in the league.

It turned out “Prima” and Scooter had become best friends and lived relatively close to each other. He was teaching Scooter how to ride his motorcycle and I don’t mean motor bike, either. It was a small one, but no question was a real motorcycle. I would suspect that Scooters mom, Miss Congeniality, was totally oblivious to this activity, but of course she was probably too busy developing new schemes to harass me. Don’t call me paranoid just because the whole world is after me.

The Indians had a few close games, but for the most part were winning by five and six runs. I was starting to play my two-inning players – more, if in fact we were up more than five runs. On a couple of occasions we started throwing the ball all over the place and came close to losing, but the team came through. The league had a rule I really hated, which was simply that if a team was up by more than 10 runs at the end of the fourth inning, then the game would be called. We had a couple of games like that. Maybe it was the humane thing to do, but I didn’t think that was fair to the other team. I had seen some awfully strange things happen when these kids got to playing the other game called “let’s boot the ball around, all over the field.” I was a firm believer in “It ain’t over, till it’s over.”

The Indians didn’t lose a game in the entire second half. The last game was against the Red Sox, who were still at the bottom of the pile and had lost all but two games. Miss Congeniality was nowhere in sight. She was probably at home tending to her cauldron. “Help me! Help me! I’m melting! Oh my, I’m melting!” I started all my second-tier players and let “Prima” pitch the first three innings, which he had been pestering me to do for most of the season. He walked seven guys, hit two and I went out to him, and got the ball, sending him out to center-field. He was laughing and his comment was “I guess I need to work on my pitching.” My comment was, “Don’t give up your day job!” He could hit, but he sure couldn’t pitch.

The Indians won it all, of course, and there was joy in Mudville that night. The next weekend was trophy presentations time, and the naming of the 15 league All-Stars, who would represent our franchise in the regional tournament. Nine Indians made the All-Stars and by tradition, the winning manager had to coach the team. Great! I was beginning to wonder what the inter-league rules were about “a cold one before the game, during the game and after the game.” I was less than sanguine about this dubious distinction of going to get humiliated by some of these other regional teams. Like I said in my other story, from what I had seen the previous year, it seemed to me these other teams were playing a different game. Scooter was the only Red Sox player to make the All-Stars. I didn’t see Miss Congeniality, his mom, at the presentations and had to assume that she had fallen into her cauldron. Maybe her husband pushed her!

We had one week to get this team prepared, and I got the help of two of the other managers in our league. We practiced for two hours for four days, and had pretty well solidified starters versus the marginal players. Scooter was a starter because he had really perfected the “chop,” and was without a doubt the fastest runner on the team. His fielding was erratic so we stuck him in right field. We had five competent pitchers and a fairly solid infield. We still had trouble with the double play. I wasn’t optimistic about our proficiencies, but felt we would put up a good showing.

One of these kids, who was a marginal player and soon to be relegated as a two-inning player, was a Russian émigré. One of the many rules that exist in Little League is a requirement for a valid copy of the player’s birth certificate. All the kids brought copies, with the exception of Vladimir. His family gave him a copy of his Russian passport. I thought this was fine and submitted it with all the other paperwork to the regional league officials. They rejected the passport, and sent a note saying I had to have copy of the birth certificate. I explained this to the kid and told him to get his parents to give me a copy of his birth certificate, and to me it didn’t matter if it was in Russian or not because as far as I was concerned, that was a league problem, not mine.

The next practice Vladimir’s father showed up. He’s about 5-foot-nine and looks like a small bear. He came up to me waving copies of the passport and clearly was a little agitated. I tried to explain to him the rules, but he wasn’t buying it. He basically told me that I had to accept this and I told him it was not my decision. At that point, he tore the papers up into little pieces and threw them in my face with some comments in Russian that I was sure had something to do with my mother being unmarried and somewhat solicitous. I went ballistic! Fortuitously, two of the other coaches were right there and got in between me and this Russian maniac.

He left – we never got a birth certificate and under the circumstances we could not allow Vladimir to play. I felt bad for the kid, but at the same time was somewhat incensed at this altercation. Fortunately, my co-coaches interceded before I attempted to deck this guy on the spot. He was probably a former Greco-Roman wrestling champion and would’ve broken my back in short order. I could see the headlines now, ”Little League coach assaults Russian Consulate member, creating an international incident! The Russian Foreign Office has expressed its concern and has demanded an explanation and an apology from our Secretary of State.” My assessment of the situation was, the Cold War is not quite over.

As I’ve said before, the kids are great, but sometimes the parents really leave a lot to be desired, which is the same as politely saying some really suck. Sorry about that! Oh well, there goes my PG-13 rating, violence and vulgar words causing my downfall. Would you believe that I later got letter from a local attorney, who I knew, citing the potential actions that this guy was contemplating.

The lawyer involved belonged to the same tennis club that I did, and we would occasionally play against each other. I looked at the schedule one day and saw that we were going to be competing in a doubles tournament. I took his letter and wrote the following comment “expletive deleted you. Nasty letter to follow.” I slipped it in an envelope and handed it to him after we had cleaned their clock. I had real trouble believing he didn’t tell his client to take a hike, but I rather imagine his fee was close to couple grand. Considering that, I came to the conclusion that I got the better of the Russian bear. I don’t think I want to go to Russia though, because I’m sure I’m on the KGB hit list.

So putting that incident out of my mind and concentrating on the upcoming potential debacle, we continued practicing. There were no dry peas, no spitting contests and a solid degree of intensity on the part of our players. Our first game was on a Friday and wonder of wonders, we prevailed by three runs. At that point, I began looking around for three wise men coming from the East, and wondering what was next. We played that Saturday, and once again won by three runs. I was elated, however was quite sure that Gabriel was right around the corner ready to blow his horn.

With these two wins, we now moved to a four team playoff the following weekend in the elimination playoffs. We lost the first two games and were history. The good news is that was farther than any other previous team from our franchise had ever succeeded to. The kids all got a little trophy and a medal indicating how far they had gone. They all began a bunch of war whoops and chants that rather perplexed the league officials. They began their traditional after-game war dance. We were asked to leave. A Wild Bunch to the bitter end.

This was my final game for the boys and Little League. I was leaving the company that I had been with for the past five years to go become a bigger fish in a smaller pond. And based on my new responsibilities, I knew full well that my Little League management days were over. The effervescent Indians went on to win the whole shebang the following year, and actually I assumed it was because of my tenacious training regime and expertise.

Unfortunately, I did not hear from the Cleveland Indians ownership again. Later I’ll write a story about what happened to some of these kids in their later lives. It’s rather fascinating! As kind of a closing note, sometime after my active role, I heard from a friend that Miss Congeniality had run off with the Greek sailor and was now packing sardines in the Azores. I jest!

So this ended my Little League coaching career, or so I thought. Blue-eyes and another ex-college softball jock, if that’s appropriate, decided that the girls in our little town were being shortchanged and decided to form a girls Little League Senior Softball franchise. They did, and I was drafted to be one of the coaches, but by rule was not allowed to sit in the dugout for fear of possible contamination of these innocent 13- to 16-year-old young ladies. Right! This was a total female show, controlled by them and played by them and I considered it completely chauvinistic. But that’s a different story to be addressed at a later date.

Moral of the story – In situations like “Prima,” sometimes the obvious “ain’t” so obvious! 

Indians on the Little League Warpath

We last left the Indians going for the ”gold” and getting dumped on their collective butts. A new season had now begun and JJ came back as manager, much to the chagrin and frustration of the league president and, I’m sure, and Miss Congeniality of 1911 or whatever year it was. If you don’t know about her, she’s discussed in a couple my other stories, principally dealing with the Dodgers and the fun and games in the minor leagues, which had nothing to do with either baseball or the kids. I’m not going to rehash the inner workings of the league, because I already explained that in the story called “Wild Indian Uprising.”

The team returned pretty much intact because we had only had a couple of 12-year-olds that were no longer eligible. Last season, the Indians had four players named to the All Stars and they got to go play in the inter-league tournament. True to form, they lost the first two games and were eliminated. I went to one of the tournament games and came away with the conviction that the opposition was playing a different game than we were. It was time to write to my congressperson (politically sensitive) about parity of the Little League teams in his/her congressional district. Maybe I could somehow induce Miss Congeniality take this project on. The assumption there was that she could write. That’s cruel and unbecoming of me, but I am going to leave it in here anyway.

We had nine returning players, all of which were approaching the 11 to 12 year old magic number, although most of them are still only 11. The rules were rather simple and basically said you can’t play in the league if you’re over 12. God – think about that for a minute, washed up at the age of 13! Our nemesis, the Red Sox, had been decimated. They only had four returning players, simply because last season they had loaded their team roster with 12-year-olds through some draft hoi-polloi. (This sneaky ringer business is covered in the other story I mentioned.) Okay! So big deal, they won the gold. The Indians were in a position that would allow the team to have at least nine players coming back over a two-season period – good, bad or indifferent.

So we had the draft, and once again JJ Junior came through with some scouting reports, and we picked up one more 11-year-old and a bunch of 10-year-olds who at least understood where first base was. My good buddy Scooter was still with the Red Sox, however he kept in contact with a number of our old Dodger teammates that were still around. To show you what kind guy Scooter was, he used to show up at our practices to be with his buddies more than my prima donna did. Scooter was a keeper!

The Red Sox had a new manager and I knew him – good guy, and really interested in the kids. He came up to me one day at practice and told me that Scooter wanted to be traded to the Indians. I doubt very seriously if Scooter’s mom knew about this, because she would have had a serious ventricular episode. I thought about the proposal for maybe 10 micro-seconds and told him I did not think the league rules would allow that. In reality, my thoughts were about spending the next two and a half months with Miss Congeniality pointing out my inbred aboriginal faults at every opportunity. Besides that, I think Blue-eyes would’ve gone ballistic. Being a true “Indian Mom,” she was waiting to ambush Miss. Congeniality and was probably ready take her scalp with a dull paring knife.

My rules about practice were still the same. “You want to play more than two innings, show up to practice.” Mr. Prima Donna was back and I was shocked at how much he had grown. He still had trouble making it to practice, but at least he understood that I wasn’t going to put him on the starting roster, even though he was probably the best overall athlete on the team. He started bringing his own bats and I told him it was okay in practice, but he probably couldn’t use them in a game. The bats had to be sanctioned by the Great Little League Gods in Williamsport or something to that effect. His dad called me that night, a little red-assed, and said he thought that was a silly rule. I told him I agreed! His final comment was something about corruption in the Little League National management. Man, you gotta love parents! I should’ve told him that his kid really didn’t need a bat because he has an awful lot of trouble just swinging at a ball, but I didn’t.

I taught some of the better hitters how to pull an outside pitch and pop it into right field which is where most of the two inning players would end up and were usually not paying a lot of attention to what was going on. This worked out a lot better than I anticipated and the rest of the team began to try to emulate this batting style. The kids thought this was great stuff, they still had the “chop” and now could hit the ball to the opposite field. We only had one left-hander and he was a good hitter, that fact had gotten around, so the other teams would swap positions, the right fielder to left and left would go to right. My little lefty was really unhappy about this; he took it somewhat personal, thought there ought to be a rule and in the final analysis tried switch hitting, which was a total disaster. He was not able to master hitting anything outside, because a majority of the pitches were in on him, being thrown by a right handed pitcher.

The little Indians still had their totally incompetent athletic moments, but they weren’t as plentiful as the other teams, and we were leading the first-half by three or four games. We were clearly the best team in the league at that particular time, and were well on our way to winning the first half. The gang was having a lot of fun and the frustrations of the previous year were behind us. Mr. Prima Donna actually began to show up for practices and I paid a lot of attention to getting him into a mode of swinging at the ball. Blue-eyes actually came up with the solution. She told me after one game that he was closing his eye at the plate. What?!I couldn’t see this because his back was to me, so during one game I walked out of the dugout and stood by the backstop and sure as hell, he was closing his eyes. I suspected that he was afraid of the getting hit. I didn’t say anything to him about it, but the next practice I concentrated on teaching him how to get out of the batter’s box. Bingo! The kid started swinging, started to get hits and loved every minute of it. He came to all the practices after that. During the rest of the games, he got plunked once or twice and would just look over at me, smile and run down to first base. I felt guilty that I had not picked up on this problem.

The tribe attempted to renew their less than acceptable signals to the first base coach. I was able to curtail that activity by providing some socially appropriate signals that did not include “crotch grabbing,” the “Italian salute,” or “half-mooning,” and was able to avoid any further conversations with the league president. They had noticed on television that the “pros” were constantly spitting. The concept of role models and emulation presented itself in the form of a constant shower of spit. I was concerned that the dugout, “wigwam,” would soon turn into a slippery sea of saliva. I lowered the boom and told them no more “expectoration” in the dugout. You don’t want to know what they thought that meant!

Much to my dismay, one of the creative moms made a sign that said, “No expectoration (Spitting) in the Wigwam.” It had a little cartoon of a kid in a baseball uniform, with a feather in his cap, spitting on his shoes. Clever! I found out a little later that they were walking up to the plate, spitting in front of the plate and turning to the catcher and saying “I just expectorated!” This unfortunately proves the point that a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.

That didn’t completely eliminate their desire to emulate the pros, so when they weren’t on the field they were standing next to the cyclone fence having a contest about who could spit farthest. They called it the “expectoration exhibition” and actually kept score. I have no idea what the prize for first place was. One of my geniuses brought a bag full of dried peas and the occupant of the batter’s box soon became the primary target, being plummeted by semi-soggy peas. You’d be surprised how far a dry pea can go when launched by an expert 11-year-old. I didn’t do anything about this activity for the simple reason that I figured next spring, before the season started, I could come over and harvest 42 bushels of peas.

The league came back with the mandated jockstrap and cup rule. I had a little visit from the president who had heard about the Dodgers’ escapades in the minors regarding these devices, and suggested that any recurrence of this would be unacceptable and punishable by death. I told him he was going have some enforcement issues, but I would admonish the “Wild Bunch” not to re-create the sling shot episodes. True to my prediction, the league did have a problem, but with the Red Sox. I wasn’t at the game, but apparently some of the boys were using the cups to drink their Gatorade or whatever. I thought this was pretty hysterical and came to the conclusion that it was probably instigated by Scooter. Ya gotta love that kid!

At the end of the first half we had three games to go and were ahead by four. I decided to start all the underachievers and let them play at least four innings and they did fine. We only lost one of those games. We were pretty hot stuff! I had four kids that were batting well over .400 and our fielding was pretty solid. We even executed a number of double plays. I was happy, the kids were happy, the parents were happy and Miss Congeniality was really pissed, which made me even happier. I got a call from the Cleveland Indians’ owner, wanting to know if I was willing to move to Cleveland. I told him no, that I was “contractually bound for the balance of the season, but let’s talk after it’s over.” God! What an ego!

The second half will be covered in another story – later!

Moral of the story – If you open your eyes, you can sometimes see and do more wondrous things.

JJ and The Wild Indian Uprising

This story is not about Native Americans, so if that’s what you expect you might as well not read it. What it is about is an erstwhile Little League baseball team named the Indians, and their trials and tribulations. If you read one of the previous Little League stories, you’ll know the league was blessed by my reappearance in a managerial role, much to the chagrin of the league President. Drinking a “cold one” after a game was not considered by him as something of a role model. What he didn’t realize was that I was only drinking it as a courtesy to the “offeree” ” He forced me to take it! I really don’t much like beer. And besides that, I wasn’t anywhere near the dugout, nor do I look anything like Walter Matthau. More like Yul Brynner!

Our season was divided into two halves, and to be champions you had to either win both halves or survive the onslaught of one playoff game, winner take all. There are only five teams in the majors, which is the 10 to 12 year old grouping. The Indians finished the first half at the bottom of the pile. We only had a couple of blowout games, but were close – one or two runs in most of our losses. But close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. The daunting Red Sox had won the first half.

The kids’ attitude was still quite positive, and they were having fun whooping and hollering in the dugout like a bunch of wild Indians, which in fact they were. I wasn’t called Coach. I was Chief. Our team was the tribe, but at the strong suggestion of Blue-eyes, I drew the line on the squaw definitions. When we got together for practices or games, the normal greetings were the raising of the right hand and the guttural “How.” The dugout was the “wigwam.” Drinks like Gatorade were defined as “firewater.” The team was having fun, even if it wasn’t winning, and my attitude was “that was what it’s all about.” Don’t get this wrong! When they were in the game they were very serious and didn’t like to lose.

Since the rules would not allow bunting, I taught the troops or “clan,” as they preferred to be called, how to chop down on the ball, which had the same effect as a bunt. Tough play for an infielder, but very effective and totally legal. It would draw their infield in and then the troops could swing away. We had a signal for this. It was the “tomahawk chop.” Real subtle, right? Nobody’s gonna guess what that means! The chop began to pay off. We didn’t overdo it and used it mainly to move up runners, but the side benefits were probable throwing errors to first base. With a runner on third, it was like a squeeze play. Once the other team started throwing the ball around, we could go back to our strategy of “antelope” baseball.

Most of the other teams had adults acting as base coaches, but I decided to let the kids do it, especially my two-inning players. It worked out fine, because most of the time the kids running bases didn’t pay any attention to the base coach anyway. The tribe decided that they had have signs like they had seen on the TV games, which of course they dubbed ”Indian signs.” I mean after all, no self-respecting Indian would go anywhere without their signs.

So they would stand at the entrance to the “wigwam” and go through all these gyrations. There were a couple of problems with this. First, you couldn’t steal a base, so I was never sure what they were suggesting to the guy coaching first base. The other was that most of the signs they created were rather obscene. I had no idea what they meant, didn’t care and frankly, really didn’t want to know. Unfortunately, the signs could be seen by the opposition’s spectators and of course, someone reported it. I got yet another phone call from the league President telling me to cease and desist.

The Indians were prevailing. We were well into the second half and had only lost one game, and that was to the Red “Sods.” Our pitching had improved greatly and there were far fewer walks. We had lost two 12-year-olds, and I had to draft from the minors. It turned out the additions we got were very good pitchers and frankly, better all-round players than what I had lost. We only had two 12-year-olds left on the team, and one of them was a two-inning player, which was totally disproportionate to our competition, especially the Red Sox, who had eight 12-year-olds. The chop was an effective tool and was being imitated by some of the other teams, but their execution was not as good as ours. Part of the reason for this was that we focused on the lead runner, which for some reason the other teams neglected to do.

One interesting event that occurred is what I like to call the “double-double” play! Now you know that’s impossible in baseball, but it happened. We were leading in one game by about four or five runs when our starting pitching imploded and we could not get anybody out. The bases were loaded and the batter popped up right in front of the catcher. He caught the ball, threw to first base and the first baseman stepped on the bag because the runner had taken off and was now standing on second with another runner trying to get back to second and was tagged before he could get back. The runner at third was halfway between home and third base and had to tag up and he was tagged out. By this time we had kids running from one base to another, coaches out waving their arms and absolute chaos. At that point I thought the next thing that can happen is they’ll tag out the guy standing in the on deck circle. That’ll make it five outs!

The umpire was a young kid, and with all of this happening so fast, could not be expected to have seen, let alone interpret what the hell had just happened. Both teams were on the field and he was caught right in the middle. By this time it had dawned on me that we had just done the impossible, and made four outs in one inning. Naturally, it didn’t stand. We were given credit for a double play, and a runner was allowed to stay at third base. I pointed out that that meant one of their “runners had just disappeared off the face of the earth.” To no avail! Syllogistic logic has no place in baseball. We got the final out, and that was that. I did not argue about it because the kid umpire was clearly out of his depth. One of my gang wanted to know if we got credit for that fourth out in the next inning. Seemed like a good idea to me.

Another incident occurred, but fortunately did not involve in the Indians. Thank God! I just didn’t need another phone call from the President. In this instance, it was a case of “loaded bats” in a game that the Red Sox had lost. After the game, the Red Sox manager was picking up the gear, which was always the case, being the first item on our job description, and he picked up a bat which belonged to the opposition. As he was walking to the dugout, he saw what appeared to be black tape around the head of the bat, but was in fact a very thin lead weight used principally on golf clubs. He refused to surrender the bat to the other manager and went looking for league official.

The Red Sox manager insisted that the game be decreed a forfeit. He called me and wanted me to support his position, and I told him “no,” and that I personally doubt if the weighted bat had anything to do with their loss. My thoughts were that this was much ado about nothing. The way these kids swing, a little bit of weight wasn’t going to do a damn thing to improve their hitting. If anything, it was probably a disadvantage. The team that had beaten them had replaced the Indians at the bottom of the barrel. Next thing that happened – some of the parents got involved and actually got a lawyer to write a letter to the President of our league, which was a good thing because it would probably keep him busy, and keep him off my sad little butt.

As it turned out, the manager of the other team didn’t know anything about the lead weight, and this major felony had been perpetrated by one of the players. If the Red Sox’s parents had their way, the kid would’ve been sent to San Quentin. For the most part, Little League kids are great, but some of the parents can be a royal pain in the “tush.” I don’t know for sure, but I suspect Ms. Congeniality had something to do with this endeavor. If you don’t know who she is, then you’re not reading my other baseball stories, which indicates you have superior intelligence and more important things to do. But I digress!

The season was winding down and we were in a dead heat with the Red Sox. We had one more game to play, and if we won it, we would force a playoff for the second half – and if we won that, then we would have to play another “winner take all” playoff game. The Indians did not play at all that well in this last game. I think the war chants got their blood up and it was just way too much adrenaline. We were in the last of the seventh inning, two outs, bases loaded, with one of my “prima donnas” at bat. As he went out to hit, I heard one of his teammates tell him that this pitcher was going to put it over the plate. He went out there, and sure enough got two quick called strikes and then stood there as the third called strike hit the catcher right in middle of the plate. He was very irate and said some things to the umpire, and on his way back to the dugout told me that those were three (expletive deleted) bad calls. I didn’t say anything to him because I know he felt bad, but my thought was, “If you’re going to be a prima donna, you’d better perform. Otherwise, turn in your tutu or jockstrap – whichever is most fitting.”

There was a pizza party after this loss, and the parents had gotten together and presented me with a little engraved pewter cup that was meant to act as a disguise for the “cold one” after future games. I thought that was very nice, but what they didn’t realize was this cup had a glass bottom and when I tried to use it, it leaked like a sieve. I still have it, but use it principally to hold my crayons.

Moral of the story – The old baseball saying of “wait’ll next year” is just so much horse pucky.

Wild Beasties – Raccoons, Ducks, Squirrels, Potatoes, Baseball, World War I and John Wayne

 

I came up with that title figuring some of you would be screwing around surfing the web, and I figured on getting a bunch of hits just by mentioning the “Duke.” Baseball is only mentioned because it’s October and the end of the season is near. However, if professional baseball keeps going the way they have, we won’t have the World Series until the day after Christmas. I just thought I’d throw that in as an editorial comment. But I digress!

Some years back, in the middle of the night I woke up to this god-awful noise in the backyard, and a lot of splashing. If you’re not aware of it, we have this huge pool that has attracted many things that are not human – and least of all, poor swimmers. I hauled my butt out of bed, turned on the outside lights and discovered two raccoons in the pool on top of my thermal pool blanket. They couldn’t get out of the pool because they were heavier than the solar blanket. So every time they would move, they would sink. They couldn’t swim because they were on the blanket and their nasty little sharp claws were not doing it a lot of good. They were in what you could call “panic city.” There was a third one sitting next to the pool watching this action. For a second or two, I thought this insensitive beast was laughing, but I couldn’t be sure. At the very least it was grinning, if indeed a raccoon can grin.

So like a Good Samaritan that I am, I grabbed the pool cleaning net and fished the two raccoons out. They did not take off like I would’ve expected, but instead continued the fight which more than likely had caused them to take a dive in the first place. One of them went splashing back in the pool again and the others just stood there. Raccoons can see well in the dark, but don’t do real great with the lights on. Clearly, the two combatants were fighting over the third raccoon which was most likely a female. I guess raccoons have some human traits after all. Clearly, the female was at fault, as usual. Possibly, it was two females fighting over the male, which is the way that it should be in the first place. I digress!

So, I fished this love-sick diminutive bandit out of the pool again and decided it was time to chase this trio into another county. I had a large push broom sitting next to the pool, and got it with the intent of scaring these potential participants in a ménage à trois into my flaky neighbor’s yard, with the hopes that they would wake him up. Much to my surprise and immediate concern, the female got up on her hind legs, showed me a huge amount of her teeth and clearly she had decided she needed a chunk of JJ. At that point, I decided discretion was the better part of valor and did a hasty retreat into the bedroom.

By then, Blue-eyes was awake and had been watching from the door. As I scurried into the house, her comment was, “I didn’t think anything could make a Marine retreat that fast.” I think I grunted and began humming the Marine Corps’ hymn. We watched as the trio silently made their way into the darkness. A couple of nights later, there was another fight, but this time they did not end up in the pool, but did manage to knock over some patio furniture.

A few years ago in the early spring, Blue-eyes came in and exclaimed that a bunch of ducks were in the pool. I went out and sure enough, there were 15 or 16 wild ducks paddling around in our chemical-infested pool. They paid no attention to us whatsoever. I didn’t know if it was duck season or not, but I was really tempted to go get my Remington 22 and have smoked duck for dinner. But then I started to think about Donald, Daffy and Daisy and decided it really wasn’t a good idea. Besides, firing a 22 where we live would have the Sheriff, FBI, the National Guard and the Border Patrol in our front driveway in a matter of seconds. It was kind of fun to watch them paddling back and forth, then all of a sudden I realized that they were leaving a whole bunch of deposits that were completely unwanted. So I ran around waving my arms and eventually they took off.

About two weeks later they reappeared, only this time there were more. I did the same routine that I had done before, barking like a dog and making loud noises and attempting to emulate a shot, assuming that would get their attention. They eventually flew off, but returned the next morning. I couldn’t figure out how to dissuade them, but Blue-eyes, in her omnipotent wisdom came up with a solution. “Go get a large picture of a 12 gauge Winchester shotgun and hang it up by the side of the house.” I didn’t do it, but I thought it was a hell of a good idea. I did get my leaf net and attempted to capture one. They were too fast. Blue-eyes rushed into the house to get a camera, because she wanted to have evidence that I had finally gone over the edge. They eventually left and we only had one other sighting, but that was only three birds.

The other day, while I was standing at the back patio door, I saw this demented squirrel absolutely intent on planting walnuts in the seat cushions of my patio chairs. I chased her away and found five walnuts stuck in the creases of the cushions. This girl didn’t go far, sat about 40 feet away on the lawn and looked at me. I threw the nuts at her hoping she would get the message. She scampered away leaving her winter’s dietary supplement laying in the middle my lawn. I suspect she figured that nobody in JJ’s family would realize that they were sitting on a bunch of walnuts. Hell, she may have been right! I’ve certainly been called “hard ass” more than once. For the educators reading this – first of all, shame on you, and second, I want to explain that this is a figurative condition and not literal.

Well, she’s back, and now unfortunately she is digging a hole into a $20 cushion and I suspect it’s to get even with me for throwing nuts at her. Notice I say “she” and “her!” Do not assume that I’m being a chauvinistic, because the females are mainly responsible for the “nut burying process.” Ask any squirrel devotees and they’ll confirm what I just suggested. You can also tell that they are females because they have to carry a GPS system to remember where they put the last nut. Oh hell, I just couldn’t resist!

I made a decision to get out my trusty Red Ryder lever action BB gun, and pop this little product from an illicit relationship in the butt. I don’t want to kill it, but only to make sure that it gets the message that it and its actions are persona non-grata. I assure you, if you’ve ever been popped in the butt with a BB, you remember it. It hurts you just enough to make you a little squirrely. I didn’t really say that, did I?

The squirrel episode reminds me of an event last week or so when I was driving downtown behind an SUV with a bumper sticker saying “I brake for Squirrels.” I thought, “Now that’s a kindhearted soul!” After following her for a few moments, I came to the conclusion that the squirrels had to be about the only thing that she could possibly brake for! She (this is an assumption on my part because it could’ve been a weird-looking dude in drag) didn’t stop for pedestrians in a crosswalk; blew through a stop sign; honked at some old guy with a cane, jaywalking; and cut off another driver on a left turn. All of this within three blocks. If you read one of my blogs you might assume this could be the same lady that kicked my left front tire while she was talking on her cell phone while parked in the middle of the street. At the very least, these two went to the same driving school. Had that been me, I would’ve had at least five tickets and be qualified for the ”three strikes and you’re out” law.

My turn to cook, so I started dinner, which is going to consist of a shrimp and lettuce salad with creamy ranch dressing, steak and potatoes served on paper plates because it’s also my turn to do the dishes. I’m a little worried about the potatoes because they have these little green things growing on them, so I figure it best to use them quickly before they develop into large flesh eating carnivorous beasts. I suspect I will have to go plant the unused spuds in my garden, as I’m sure that the gophers that have infested this area are starving to death.

What’s the derivation of the word “spud?” I think it’s from a World War I movie! “Capt. Goodheart was flying his trusty, bullet-riddled “Spud” when the German “Fokker” came out of the clouds and into his gun-sights. He pressed the trigger of his twin Balfour machine guns and saluted as the Fokker went down in flames. Actually, I don’t think it was “spud,” I think that was “Spad.” Fokker is another one of those words you have to be very careful pronouncing.

Why do they call those little spots on potatoes “eyes?” Can they really see what you’re about to do to them with the potato peeler? I use the tip of the peeler to gouge these spots out because I’m not keen on eating eyes. Most everything else is okay, but I draw the line there. I could swear I heard one of them screaming in a loud voice “Help me! Help me!” (That’s from an old movie called “The Fly,” and could have ended within the first 5 minutes if they’d had a spraying can of Raid handy.) This event could go down in history as the Great Potato Massacre of Wounded Knee, which is a reference to my left knee cap or whatever still remains.

I’m recording a baseball game so that I can go back and play it on a fast-forward basis. I can watch the complete nine inning game in 22 minutes. Baseball is at best semi-boring as a player, and extremely boring if you have to watch it. I am fascinated by the fact that the batters play with their Velcro batting gloves, taking a long time adjusting the gloves after each pitch, whether they’ve swung at the ball or not. What did these guys play with before they allowed the batting gloves? Don’t go there!

Think of the time they would save if they would outlaw batting gloves. This is something that I’m absolutely certain you will ponder over for the next three or four days, and more than likely come up with a meaningful solution that can be inserted into the rulebook for next season.

Another thing that strikes me as bizarre is the amount of “crotch grabbing” when they get on base. These professionals should have an award for whoever grabs their crotch the most during the season. The trophy could be a Golden Cup and a lifetime supply of talcum powder.

Tonight after dinner and throwing away the plates, I’m going to watch a John Wayne film called “Sands of Iwo Jima.” I always cry at the end when “Duke” gets killed, but I do the same thing with “Old Yeller” and ”An Affair to Remember.” I really didn’t think Nicky was that great of a painter! Based on the one scene where you see her portrait, I can understand why the dealer gave it away. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ll have to watch the movie.

As far as Old Yeller is concerned, I think the guy that shot him would have been better off using a shotgun. If he had missed with that rifle and just wounded him, it would have pissed Yeller off no end, and he was close enough to cause all kinds of problems and that would’ve made a whole different ending to the movie. Yuck! The movie promos would’ve been “Come and watch the latest Disney family thriller about a rabid dog that kills family of six. This film is rated PG-4.”

Moral of the story – If you’re going use paper plates make sure you don’t forget the plastic utensils.

JJ in the Majors – Little League, that is!

After a two-year hiatus, my professional responsibilities had changed once again, and I was given the opportunity to manage in the “biggies.” In our Little League community this was called “the Majors,” and consisted of players between the ages of 10 and 12. When you reach 11 years old you were out of the minors, regardless of skills, and so the Dauntless Dodgers were disbanded after succeeding to multiple championships, thanks to the tutelage of yours truly. Don’t I wish?

The coach that followed me knew what he was doing, and “Dem Bums” had a rather fantastic record, mostly because of the few players like “Scooter,” who, when on base didn’t know when to stop. I was happy to hear that his Mom, “Miss Congeniality of 1901,” was continuing her quest and was harassing the new Dodgers coach. I had begun to think I was not going to be in her will.

The new team was given the name “Indians,” and I was pretty unhappy about that for a couple of reasons. One – the Indians had to be one of the worst teams in pro baseball, and two – I was worried that the parents would develop the “chop” and “war chant” adopted by the Atlanta Braves. I had a plan to have the kids put on war paint before every game, but Blue-eyes talked me out of this idea as being somewhat insensitive. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I did teach the kids a few steps of a war dance and we would yell “Geronimo” anytime someone got a hit. The gang decided that everybody’s nick name was “ke-mo sah-bee.” I heard later that they were doing the same thing in school, and that it didn’t go over real big with the administration. Nobody has a sense of humor anymore! By the way, “ke-mo-sah-bee” means good friend or good scout, not the more popular interpretation of the old joke “**it for brains.”

The rules were pretty much the same as the minors; however the skill sets of the kids were greatly improved. You could no longer just run rampant on the bases, because some of the curtain climbers were quite capable of fielding a ball and delivering it to the proper place, in a reasonable location and at the proper time. For me, that was a great revelation and I would clearly have to change my winning strategy, which could best be defined as “antelope baseball.” These kids could actually get the ball out of the infield and in some instances the 12-year-olds could hit that thing a ton.

Come draft time, I really didn’t know much about most of the players and the only tryouts that were held were for new kids just coming into the league. The Indians only had four returning players. Tom was one of them. I had to rely on JJ Junior and Tom, whose acumen in these matters exceeded mine. I got JJ Junior because he was my son and I think he regretted it when jokingly one day I said, “Thank God, we’ve got an experienced catcher.” He worked me up a list of names for the draft, and one of the top players was Scooter. He told me I really needed to draft him, and my comment was “Yeah, but the problem is – you get Scooter, you get his Mom.”

Junior confessed that I had a good point. I thought about it and the solution I came up with was to draft Scooter, and make his Mom our assistant manager, figuring if she had some complaint I could just look at her and say “Talk to the assistant manager.” Also, that way I could fire her. It didn’t happen because Scooter went in the first round to the Red Sox. I was able to draft a couple of the old Dodger doofuses.

So, we started the practice routine with the same rule – make it to practice if you want to play more than two innings. True to form, I had drafted a couple of prima donnas that figured they didn’t need to practice, and come the first game, which we lost, they did not start and were relegated to two innings. They still didn’t show up for practice and they didn’t start the second game, which we won. They again only played two innings and got the message. The Indians still had their fair share of the less than competent, two-inning players. Unfortunately, none of them had Doc’s unique one-liners. The neat thing was these kids didn’t complain and were team players, and when they were playing they did indeed concentrate.

On our first game with the Red Sox, all of the gang showed up with feathers stuck in the back of their hats. Our faithful gallery of parents and friends thought this was hilarious. Where they got all of the feathers, I will never know and probably don’t want to. I suspect there were some poor unsuspecting chickens running around somewhat bare-assed. No question – these kids were resourceful.

Scooter’s Mom was there and came to our dugout somewhat indignant. Her comment was to the effect that we were being politically incorrect. She said our name was bad enough, but all of the war whoops and general Indian antics was really an insult. I looked at her and said “It’s really okay, because one of our player’s name is Inder Singh.” She looked at me as if I were two cans short of a six-pack and went back to her bleachers, shaking her head. Score one for JJ! I was thinking that maybe she should move to Cleveland and start a crusade. I’m certain she wrote her congressman that night. I guess I should say congress-person.

We lost that game to the Red Sox. Scooter got walked on four pitches, and scored the winning run on a legitimate hit in the last of the seventh. He was still doing the squat routine at the plate, no strike zone, which irritated me no end. I guess that’s what you could call being hoisted on your own petard. Scooter came over after the game to say hello. His mother, Ms. Congeniality, came quickly to our dugout, scowling with the obvious assumption that I was contaminating his mind, probably teaching him swear words in Navaho. She gave me a look that could only be interpreted as triumphant, and that this loss was my penalty for being politically incorrect. I never met Mr. Congeniality, but I suspect that she nagged him to death and that he was buried someplace in their back yard.

When I got home, I did a back-flip into martini, shaken not stirred, and Blue-eyes commented that she had seen the encounter. She said she was going to make it a point to sit next to her the next time we played the Red Sox and cheer for the Indians while humming the Braves’ war chant, accompanied by the Tomahawk Chop. Clearly, Blue-eyes’s Bohemian-Indian blood was up, because she headed directly for the “fire water.”

On another game days, one of the kids showed up with a can of eye black. The next thing I knew, not only was it under their eyes but it was on their noses and a couple of the more inventive ones drew a mustache and sideburns. One of the league officials was there, and of course, they were required to remove this distasteful display of non-adherence to the sacred rules of Little League. I didn’t know this person and asked that he show me where in the rulebook it said they couldn’t wear eye black. Granted, they over-did it a little bit, but I think this fell in the same category as jockstraps and cups.

Naturally, I got blamed for having a bad attitude and received a phone call from the league president, who also had no sense of humor. I’m sure the feather episode didn’t help, because I’m certain they got a phone call from some irate chicken. I think I offered to share the eye black with any team that wanted to use it, and if necessary, by the chickens – dead or alive.

For the most part, the Indians were good group of kids, with the exception of one of the prima donnas who did nothing but complain about his fellow teammates and their lack of skills not being equal to his own. He was getting called out on third strikes, and of course, this was always an umpire’s bad call. I told him one of the strange idiosyncrasies of this game is that if you want to hit the ball, you must swing at. This kid was a real pain, but I know where he got it from. His dad, or possibly his custodian, was obviously vicariously reliving his youth, and had stopped me after another game which we had lost and made a bunch of suggestions.

One of his more brilliant observations was, “We should really do the double play more, because we were allowing too many runners on base.” My answer was, “Hell, we’re lucky to get the ball to first base, let alone thrown it all over the field trying to do a double play.” He was somewhat insistent, so my solution was to invite him to come and help me during practices and he could concentrate on the “double play.” That ended that, he didn’t have any more constructive ideas about how we should try to play baseball. I say “try,” because at that point that’s the best that could be said about the Indians’ efforts. Our “war whoops” were getting more authentic, however.

We actually did get a double play in a subsequent game and I looked around for him, but he wasn’t there. He was probably busy writing the memoirs of Abner Doubleday. Some of the parents were thoughtful enough to offer me a “cold one” after the games, and of course I got busted and got another phone call from the league president. His position was that we should be considering the kids and I think I commented “The kids should bring their own beer!” Whatever happened to “beer; hotdogs, peanuts and Crackerjacks” being part of the grand old game?

Our record was dismal and unfortunately matched the performance of our professional namesake. The kids were taking it pretty well, and the general comments they made after yet another loss was “We are in a rebuilding mode.” We came in at the bottom in the first half of the season, and I lost two of our better players and had to draft up a couple more ten-year-olds from the minors. Thanks to JJ Jr’s scouting report, they turned out to be better players than the two we lost.

The “pappoose’s” comments were that we would do better in the second half. I think they were thinking along the line of “Little Big Horn,” and that I was “Custer.” The team was positive, but I was less than optimistic. After our last game at the halfway point, which we had won rather handily, one of the dads came up afterward and said “Well, there’s light at the end of the tunnel.” My answer was “Yeah, I just hope it isn’t an onrushing train.” Old Doc would’ve been proud me.

Moral of the story –  If you’re going to have a “cool one” after a Little League game, make sure it’s in a plain brown wrapper, and tell the kids to bring their own damn beer.

The Dauntless Dodgers – The Final Curtain

We left the Dodgers in something of a state of flux in my previous story. They ended the first half of their season two games behind the Giants, tied for third place out of five teams, which was something of a miracle and somewhat predetermined. Our loss record was greater than our wins. As I mentioned in my previous scenario about “Dem Bums,” we were becoming more competitive with each game, and actually began to resemble something akin to a baseball team. I had developed a batting lineup that entailed putting those kids likely to make contact between those players likely to get walked. It helped, but we still made too many mistakes.

The kids could be down by 10 runs in the late innings and would start a chant, “It ain’t over till it’s over,” straight out of Yogi Berra (or was that Yogi Bear). I thought about mentioning, “It ain’t over till that fat lady sings,” but decided that would be politically incorrect. Besides, I think that has more to do with Opera than baseball! Although, come to think of it, some of the Moms were rather Wagnerian and resembled the Valkyries. If you have no idea as to what I’m talking about, you’ll have to look it up on the web, because it’s too much to try to explain here. I digress!

When “Doc” would go to the batter’s box, he began to squat down so low that there was no real strike zone. The ball was either in the dirt or over his head, so he had a high probability of getting on base. When he got on base, the fun would really begin. If somebody hit the ball he would run until he was either out or would score. Please don’t get the impression that I coached “Doc” into this batting, base-running technique. I wouldn’t stoop to such a low and unsavory, unsportsmanlike practice. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.) I asked him why he started doing that, and his response was he “was reducing the strike zone by an order of magnitude.”

Now – that scared the hell out me! He said that he had watched a TV program about a manager in the majors who had actually hired a midget, and would put him in when he needed somebody on base. This is true! The guy’s name was Bill Veeck, and he did it in the early 50s. Eventually the league banned the use of “little people” in the major leagues. “Doc” was a real thinker! He would still get some hacks in, but that was a hopeless cause.

Our fielding acumen however, left a lot to be desired. To offset this inconsistency, we really did not have an outfield because they were brought to within 20 feet of the infield grass. I modified that only when I got information from the scouting reports that so-and-so could hit. We still needed to work with the outfielders, because anything hit in the air to them was usually an unmitigated disaster. But not all of the time. One of our limited-talent outfielders actually caught a fly ball. He was so happy, he ran all the way in to the pitcher’s mound and handed him the ball. He got a standing ovation.

You have to remember that these were young kids, and to them a hardball was a dangerous thing, and in fact, could cause bodily harm. Getting hit by a batted ball or a pitch is not pleasant, especially if it’s in the mouth or face. A majority of the kids were really afraid of the pitcher and would bail out of the batter’s box, even if the ball wasn’t close. I really couldn’t blame them because the majority of pitchers, including our own, had little or no control. They did get to go to first base if they took one for the team, however, I doubt that they thought it was worth the pain.

So, next on the agenda was to teach them how to get out of the way, and in such a fashion that they did not increase the probability that they were going to get nailed by the pitch. For whatever reason, most of them would turn into the ball, rather than turning away from the ball. In some instances, they would just freeze. This was bad, because many of the kids began showing a degree of fear, specifically those kids that were playing organized hardball for the first time. It was pretty easy to detect, because they were bailing out early, or were literally reluctant to bat. As Martha Stewart would say, “Not a good thing,” but I don’t think she played much baseball, even while she did her time in the low-risk, boutique clink.

So I asked JJ Junior, who is pretty good pitcher, to throw the ball at me so I could demonstrate how to get out of the way. After he plunked me three times, smiling after each of my painful grunts, I really began thinking that this was a bad idea. JJ Junior was getting even because I made him a catcher. I was able to coach each would-be “major league” prospect on how to bailout or duck, or just plain fall on the ground to avoid being nailed. I put each batter at the plate with the catchers vest on, and went to the pitching mound and told them I was going throw at them. I did – but not hard, and they got out of the way. Sweet smell of success!

When “Doc” climbed into the catchers vest, he literally disappeared, waddled to the plate, and I suddenly realized that there was not much of his body visible to throw at. All I could see was this little black mound, a bat, and a helmet that was five sizes too large. He actually dove out of the way a couple times, and had a big grin on his face. I think the kid was a masochist. The other rule I had was no swearing in the dugout. These kids knew some really choice words. It was a good thing none of the Moms were around to watch this mean man throwing baseballs at their little darlings.

There was this kid that his teammates call “Scooter,” because he could run like a deer. He was even faster on two legs. That’s a joke! I don’t know why people say “run like deer,” because when they do I envision this person on all fours hopping and weaving all over the place. Anyway, the problem with Scooter was getting him to stop on those little white things called bags. One time, he scored all the way from first base on a grounder hit back to the pitcher. But frankly, that’s how we got most of our runs. There were others of these speed demons that did the same thing, until we made it clear what little white bags were for.

“Scooter” had a rabbit’s foot attached to the back of his hat, and one day I asked him what it was for. He answered, “Good luck!” Feeling somewhat whimsical, I looked at him and said something to the effect that I wasn’t sure that it was working, because look what happened to the rabbit, and he had four of them. He just looked back at me and said, “Well, I guess there’s a three-legged rabbit out there somewhere.” He and “Doc” were good friends and now I understood why. “Doc” was a realist and “Scooter” was an optimist. “Scooter” did become a good ballplayer.

As the second half of the season rolled on, we were actually winning more games than we were losing. The deviant and nontraditional batting order was actually working quite well. Our infield started to tighten up and our pitching surprisingly was walking fewer batters. We had beaten the Giants once, and had one more game to play against them. This was crucial, because the Giants once again were leading in the second half with only five games to go. The way the league worked is if you won both halves, you were the champs. So, to have a shot at being champs, the pressure was on us to beat the Giants again.

The league had another rule that I didn’t know about, as I hadn’t bothered to read the rulebook. Our diminutive league was considered the minors, junior to the players in the age bracket of 10 to 12, which were considered the majors, and was something of an oxymoron. My little Dodgers were good enough at this point to beat some of the teams in the majors. This rule – simply put – said that if a team in the majors lost players (leaving fewer than 12 players on their roster), they could draft a 10 year old from one of the teams in the minors. Guess what! The day before the Giants game, I got a call and was told that I had lost one of my best players. I was really bummed, but that’s showbiz.

The team didn’t really understand how that could happen, and thought it was unfair. I had to remind them, for the umpteenth time, of my rule about swearing in the dugout. I was concerned that this event would cause a letdown. Just the reverse happened. We played the Giants and beat them hands down. All we had to do now was win our four remaining games, assuming that the Giants would win their remaining games, and we would be champs of the second half by virtue of the fact that we had beaten the Giants twice. We won three of the final four, but so did the Giants.

The last crucial game was to be played on a Saturday, following the Giants final game. All of the team showed up to root for the Giants’ opposition, but to no avail. The Giants won easily. Now it was my “Bums” turn for final glory and the victory parade that would follow. The adrenaline level was out of sight and their confidence was vibrant. Although we were missing one of our better hitters and a real solid infielder, we held together quite well, and we approached the seventh inning leading by two runs.

We were the visiting team, so all we had to do was get three outs in the seventh. I had saved one of my better pitchers for the last three innings. We got two quick outs, but then gave up a walk and a base hit. The next kid coming to the plate was identified by my scouts is not being a real good hitter. We got two strikes on him in a hurry. The next pitch he hit was a bomb, way out to center field, and two runs scored – tying the game as he rounded third to come in with an inside-the-park home run. There was no trophy for second place.

“Ah! There is no joy in Mudville tonight,” or as they say “Game, Set and Match.” Sorry, wrong sport. Some guy that was clearly a Giants parent kept yelling, “Giants win the pennant. The Giants win the pennant.” He had to be from the Bronx. The kids took it pretty well, certainly better than some of the parents and unequivocally better than their coach. “Doc” and “Scooter” were standing in the front of the dugout, tears streaming down their eyes and yelling “Wait’ll next year.” You gotta love those two. If I had seen the movie “Bad News Bears,” I would’ve opened up the beer and passed it out. But I hadn’t seen the movie.

The Minors, like Majors, had the managers select the All-Star team at the end of the season, and they would go on to play other teams in other franchises. A total of 15 players were chosen, and the Dodgers, “Dem Bums,” had five All-Star players. The Giants had two.

That was my only year with the Dodgers. My job responsibilities had changed, and I was traveling a great deal more and really could not take the management of the “Daunting Dodgers.” I was able to get to a few of their games the next year, but it wasn’t the same. JJ Junior and Tom stayed with the team. “Doc” and “Scooter” had been prophetic. The Dodgers won it all, but “Scooter” had broken his arm and “Doc” had moved. JJ Junior developed some lifelong friendships during his tenure with the Dodgers. I stayed in touch with many of the players. They would come to the house to go swimming or whatever. I eventually managed a team in the Majors, and some of old Dodgers fell under my fantastic baseball tutelage once again. Right!!  But that’s another story.

Moral of the story –  If you see a three legged rabbit, then you’ll know “Scooter” had it right.

The Return of the Dauntless Dodgers

At the end of my other story, Enter Little League, we left this pint-size team, having successfully snatched victory from jaws of defeat. I didn’t offer much of a description of how this was accomplished, other than a timely hit during the last inning. To give you a flavor of the baseball acumen of both these teams, I will just note that the final score was something like 25 to 24. At best, I think there were maybe nine balls actually hit, and maybe only two of those got into the outfield, with some direct assistance from the infielders.

It was your classic pitchers’ duel, but with a reverse concept of “How many can we walk?” A majority of the runs were created by walks with the bases loaded. On one occasion, one kid was forced in by yet another walk, and to show his baseball prowess, he slid into home. Out of curiosity more than anything else I asked him, “Why did you do that?” He answered, ”I don’t know! I just wanted to try it.” Our would-be orthodontist, Westley, who I had nick-named “Doc,” was standing there and commented, “He probably had an irresistible urge.”

There were many strikeouts, but very few were called by the umpire. One of the kids actually had hit a ball that bounced twice before it got to home plate. “Doc” swung so hard at a pitch, he missed it, but the ball hit the bat’s back swing and he ended up on second base. Now that takes real talent! His mother came over later, and asked me if I had taught him that trick. I told her, “No! I think Westley has got God-given talents.”

“Doc” was one of my two innings players, who played in the outfield. I say played, but I mean he usually sat down and plucked grass or filled in gopher mounds. I don’t think he hit the ball again the rest of the year. “Doc” was a good kid, the smallest kid on the team, tried real hard, came to all the practices, and would come up with some of the funniest one-liners that I ever heard. He was only with the Dodgers that one year, as his family moved. I often wondered if he ever did become an orthodontist. I knew one thing for sure; he was not going to be a professional baseball player!

For those of you that have not had the Little League experience, I will explain a few of the rules that exist to impede the natural tendencies of the kids to be a little assertive, and get into the spirit of the good clean fun of baseball. As an example, there was a rule stating you can’t wear spikes. This, of course, eliminated the need on my part to teach them how to sharpen their spikes. There was another rule that said “no stealing,” which I think was incorporated to give the impression that this sport is meant to be a role model against the concept of theft and general corruption. I must make note to you that there was no mention of the use of steroids!

To make matters worse, if you’re on any base, you had to stay there until the pitcher released the ball. No leading off. If the catcher failed to catch the ball, you still had to stay there, meaning you can’t run down to second or third or anywhere. You had to stay there. Another rule was the manager or coach could not go onto the field. During one of the games, our infield was in its usual sieve-like configuration. My second baseman attempted to field a ground ball, missed it and fell on his face, got up, sat down on second base, then threw his glove at our pitcher. I was really encouraged by that, because the glove actually came close to his target.

I could see he was upset, so I went out to talk to him. The umpire, a 16-year-old kid, came over and said that I couldn’t do that and I had to get off the field unless the kid was hurt. I looked at the kid umpire and said, “I think he gave himself a hernia.” I don’t think the umpire knew what that meant, because he just turned around and went back to home plate.

One of the other interesting rules was something of a mandate. All players must wear a jock strap (aka athletic supporter) and a cup. I was somewhat intrigued by this level of protection at this particular point in our young men’s development, and conceded the only possible necessity for this might be for the catcher. I passed out the device at a team practice. It got more than a little complicated when I tried to explain to the team what the purpose was, and how to wear it. They seem to accept my explanation. I knew that both the rule and I were doomed to failure when at the next game, they were flipping their jockstraps like slingshots – over the fence into the crowd of the parents. After that little episode, we were known as the “Flying Jocks of the Dodgers.”

Westley’s Mom came to the dugout and demanded an explanation. At that point, I wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know what this little elastic strap “thingie” was, or why the boys were being so unruly! Tom and JJ Junior thought this concept was so funny that they wore them on the outside of their uniform trousers. The “big guy,” El Presidente was there, and he went into absolute hysterics at this scenario. I couldn’t figure out how they were going to enforce this rule. I could hear it now, “Okay gentlemen, crotch inspection time.” Later, he told me that the Dodgers had to have a little more self-restraint on the field. After he said that, he started laughing, turned around and left.

After the first couple of games, which consisted of the kids not doing much more than running around the bases, the Dodgers management went into a strategy conference, which was me talking to myself. Clearly, the name of this game was “run until you have to stop,” and hopefully that’s at home plate. It was evident at this stage that there was not going to be a lot of hitting, and if there was that happy accident, the kids needed to understand that it was unlikely that the ball would end up in the right place at the right time.

So, we really worked on running the bases and watching the other players throw the ball here, there and everywhere. It was probable that if at any time someone actually hit the ball, the likelihood of someone catching it was about as remote as finding the Fountain of Youth. I had eliminated infield warm-ups because it was too painful to watch.

We still had at least one practice a week, and sometimes two. It clearly became important to attempt to instill the basics, because if we could do that we could be competitive. Doing nothing but getting bases on balls was pretty boring, and I could tell that the kids felt that way as well. I had one rule. You had to show up for practice if you wanted to play more than two innings. I asked only that they call me if they were going to miss practice. I had a couple kids that thought they were too good to have to practice, and when they didn’t show up, I wouldn’t start them the next game.

On one occasion a father came over, who appeared a little red-assed, asked me why I wasn’t starting his little Johnny, because clearly his ”little Johnny was one of the best players on the team.” I just looked at him and told him that little Johnny doesn’t like to come to practice, and these other kids worked for a couple hours to improve their skills. So if little Johnny wants to play more, then he should show up for practice. With that, Dad turned and went back to the bleachers. Little Johnny started showing up for practice.

We concentrated on hitting and fielding, and naturally I took the best players and put them in the infield. We didn’t use the T-ball concept because hitting a stationary target versus a moving one is two different things. Four of the kids could actually pitch well enough to get the ball close to the plate, some of the time, so we didn’t work on any of that. I didn’t bother to teach them any pitches, like a curve (which should not be used in Little League anyway because it can screw up a kid’s arm in a hurry).

By about the fourth or fifth game we actually started getting hits, and much to everyone’s surprise, we were able to throw runners out – once in a while! The concept of a double-play was well beyond the reach of these kids. One of the interesting things that happened, without any surreptitious activity on my part, was some of the players would go to other teams’ games and would come back with scouting reports. When we played the other team, the scouts would come up and remind me that “that’s so-and-so, and he can hit.”

Another rule was that pitcher could only pitch so many innings per week and could not start two games in the same week. There was no way to enforce this rule, other than the managers all making sure that it was adhered to. These teams would sometimes play three times a week, so you could burn through your “pitching staff” in a hurry. Pitching staff is defined as any kid that can get the ball over the plate – every so often! I had explained this rule to the team, and much to my surprise, that became part of the scouting reports. “Hey coach, so-and-so pitched last Tuesday!”

If you’ve read my other story about Little League, then you’ll remember that during the draft I thought one of the managers kept muttering “Just win, baby. Just win!” He was also the guy that drafted the two “ringers.” They were the hated Giants, and were leading the rest of the teams by at least two games before we reached the halfway point of the season. We were about two or three games behind them, but they were fairly good, and not likely to lose the first half.

We were about to play the Giants, and “so-and-so” walked out to the mound to start the game. Good old Westley, “Doc” said, “Hey coach! That kid pitched Tuesday against the Reds, and according to Rule 14, paragraph 4, sub-paragraph 3, he’s not eligible.” So I went over to the Giants’ dugout and got the attention of “Just win, Baby.” I said something to the effect that “I don’t think your pitcher is eligible because he pitched on Tuesday,” and mentioned the rule. He got a little huffy and said “Well, nobody follows that rule.” I just looked at him and said, “I do!” I didn’t think to ask him if he had his jock strap on.

The kid stayed in as pitcher for about five innings. We ended up beating them by four runs. After the game, I went over and told this guy that I thought he should talk to the league president about the rules relating to pitching. It turned out that the manager who had lost to them that previous game was in the stands watching the game, and told our league officials about the pitching rule violation. They fined him $50,000. He got off by filing an appeal and settled for a six-pack of Bud.

As the season rolled along, I came to the conclusion that the kids were absolutely fantastic. The problem was some of the parents and some of the managers, who seem to have forgotten that these were just kids. Winning is important, but not as important as the concept of a team and sportsmanship. In talking with other managers, it was apparent our League was really low-key compared to others, and they knew of events in other leagues that were absolutely preposterous – with parents and managers getting totally out of control.

Moral of the story – Sometimes an athletic supporter is more than a fan.

Enter the Little League Years or “Who’s on First?”

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.