Put Me In, Coach

(I love this picture. This is Owen's fall 2010 team, which I didn't coach, but which I enjoyed watching immensely.)

I love baseball. I loved playing as a kid and a teenager. I loved playing as a grown-up, from age 40 to 44. I love watching the Red Sox. I mourn baseball during the winter.

But I'm conflicted about coaching. In the first draft of this post (yes, I'm a journalist at heart), I went on about how coaching Owen's team this summer has been a bit of a pain in the ass. Then I read through it and thought I was being a bit of a drag, so I set to rewriting it.

Then, came the latest agonizing, I-need-a-beer-immediately-after-this-game kind of a game. And now I realize that if Owen continues to play baseball next spring (he's taking this fall off, after having played three seasons in a row), I won't be coaching. Over are my days of keeping score, telling kids repeatedly to keep their eyes on the batter, and reminding each and every kid that they won't get a hit if they don't swing the bat.

I tip my hat to those with the combination of patience, empathy and discipline to wrangle kids, teach them the basics, encourage them to have fun and let them know that the world won't end if they lose a game or don't get to pitch.

Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed coaching. First of all, my presence behind the bench makes Owen feel more comfortable than if another coach is there. He's a shy kid on the bench, and I think my being there helps him relax a bit. I like being there with him, just as I felt good when my dad helped coach my Little League team.

Secondly, I enjoy watching a kid get his first hit, or make a really great play, or whoop it up when he (or she; we had a girl on the team for the first half of the season) scores a run. I make it a point to congratulate kids on all the good things they do, while also making sure I point out as best I can where they can do better. It's hard to get information into their heads during the game; that's what practices are for, but we don't have those in the summer.

Owen's teammates are good kids. Each one of them had at least a few good moments during this short season (we've played seven games; we've got one more next week). Sure, they lose focus more than I'd like, and they hector (I love that word) me about pitching or catching or batting first more than they should. But they're 7- to 9-year-olds and that's what they do.

And I signed up for this, so I can't complain (too much).

But it sure can be tedious. The kids have a hard time focusing, probably because most of them have been in camp all day. So when they're in the field, I spend a lot of time reminding them to keep their eyes on the batter, or to get their gloves off their heads. Because there aren't any practices, I'm constantly yelling out to them what the situation is, i.e., runner on first, one out, play it to second, tag the base. Two of the kids had never played organized baseball before this summer, so they don't always know what to do, or where to be.

I recruited two dads (Thank God!) from the team to help, so they take part in this, too.

When we're at bat, it's more of the same. Reminding each kid to keep his eye on the ball, swing hard, keep your back foot planted. When they're on base, we spend a lot of time telling them the number of outs, run if it's on the ground and go part way if it's in the air (unless there are two outs).

Yes, I know, this is what coaching is. And for the most part I enjoy it. But this is all done on two feet; there's no sitting down. God, I sound old, don't I? Anyway, the games are slow, because most of these kids (at least on our team) are just learning to pitch, so there are a lot of walks. In an effort to keep the free passes to a minimum, the league instituted a rule by which if a pitcher walks two kids in an inning, and throws four balls to a third kid, that batter is then pitched to by one of his coaches, until he gets a hit or strikes out.

Our penultimate game was a tough one. One of the kids refused to take the field if I didn't let him pitch. I told him I needed him in a different position, and then his mother and I spent about five minutes cajoling him into taking the field so the inning could start.

Later in the game, another kid got very upset because he hadn't pitched in as many games as his brother, and this was their last game, and it wasn't fair, in his view. I assured him he'd done a great job in the field, and that's where I needed him. His father is one of the assistant coaches, and helped smooth things over. Still, I never thought I'd be so exhausted and exasperated during a three-inning Little League game.

We've only got one more game, and Owen's not planning on playing in the fall, so before you know it I'll be complaining that I miss coaching Little League. Because I love baseball.