Children And Baseball

Today I dropped my son off at baseball camp.  The camp is run by the 'Montpelier Mountaineers,' central Vermont's contribution to summer college-league baseball.  I stay and watch as dozens of kids swarm the grandstands to meet the players -- their coaches -- and start a week of practicing the hardest game there is.  They are excited and ready to go.  


I wrote a column about coaching little league some years ago, back when my boy was a wee one, and post it here for those who love watching kids grow up, love baseball, love coaching or just love the idea of a warm night in a small town, sitting by the edge of a field along a river watching ball:

Our little league fields are spread out over town.  The big kids field is behind the elementary school right in the village.  It has enclosed dugouts, a big deep outfield, a grandstand.  The infield dirt is smooth and even.  The grass thick and rich.  

The little kids field is out of the village but still in Stowe; it is in the hamlet of Moscow, Vermont.  Old plank benches, no grandstand or seats, a pond in left field and a brook behind home plate.  Sliding is dicey, slicing legs like a cheese grader would.  There's a bounce to the infield dirt and the grass.  The mound is lumpy.  On the other hand, the trees along the brook provide some shade.  The field is gigantic.  Toward center field, after the edge of the pond in left field, the outfield merges into the outfield for the second field, across the meadow, far in the distance.  To a ten year old the field lasts into infinity.  

The home crowd in Moscow is down the first base line; the visiting crowd along third.  A hard hit home run to left field -- a true homer, one that lands in the pond -- means coach buys pizza.  There is nothing to say what makes a home run to center or right.  It is just fielder against runner.

With no fanfare the Ump calls ‘play ball!’ and the team takes the field.  A strong veteran is on the mound to start the opener.  She stands there, looking proud, a bit nervous.  There are two truths about baseball.  First, the ball is hard.  Second, each player is on his or her own: you either perform or you don't.  There is no hiding in the swarm.

Pitching in Little League is not a precise art.  It takes bravery to throw a ball to a batter -- trying to hit the tiny mitt of a small catcher while behind him stands an Ogre of an Umpire, staring at you like a stern, judging teacher.  Some would say it takes more bravery to stand at the plate and allow a child to throw a hard ball at you.  I go with the pitcher on this one.  It is a lonely and brave position to hold. 

The game starts.  The combination of fear, excitement, youth; the bat, the ball, the ump; the kids screaming from the bench and the field, a little league game is the third law of thermal dynamics.  The energy is released into the night of the game.  It seems boundless but lasts only as long as does a childhood.

Early on our starter has a hard time finding the plate.  Runs walk in, tension builds, she throws a dart.  It hits a batter in the helmet.  We hear a distinct ‘whack’ echo through the trees.  He staggers.  Takes his base.  Pitch’s face burns red.  A quick visit to the mound.  She is fine.  The next pitch.  The ball races in, the batter swings.  'THWOCK!'  The ball is in the catcher’s mitt.  Strike one.  First strike of the game.  A smile from the mound. 

Pitch settles in and soon we see real baseball: An unassisted double play by the second baseman; a hard play at the plate, pitcher to catcher and the slide jars the ball loose; the first baseman running hard for a pop-fly and making a catch while sliding on his butt. 

The opposing team -- Wolcott -- racks up run after run.  Despite it all, the smiles on the bench maintained.  Two hard fought innings end with the good guys down by ten.  Our starter leaves the mound beaming.  She found her groove.  The team goes into the middle frames proud, if way behind.  More errant pitching.  The good guys keep scoring runs.  Through the middle frames Wolcott’s ten run lead narrows.  Our second pitcher of the night throws nothing but heat.  An eight year old, intense, small, food on his uniform.  After every throw the young pitcher shakes his arm, so I worry and yell out ‘are you doing OK?’  I get a nod.  ‘Does your arm hurt?’ I get another nod.  Then a hard shake of the head, as he realizes he's signaled for me to take him out of the game.  I leave him in.

The game slows.  The third baseman breaks out into a little dance.  The center fielder is looking around, taking in the surroundings.  He sits down.  I shout out to him but with no impact.  Clouds are moving in and the sun now is hanging low.  The boys on the bench are now off on the grass, scratching a dog’s belly.  We are in danger of the game blowing wide open but no one seems to mind.  And then pitch gets out of a jam the old fashioned way:  he snags a line drive hit back at him at one million miles per hour.  He looks scared, then looks at the ball in his glove -- a 'how did that get there look', then he smiles.  He confidently tosses the ball to the umpire and jogs to the bench.

I look at the team as we start the bottom of the ninth (okay, technically the fourth, but it is getting dark and the visiting club has a long drive home; it's time to end this thing).  We are down by three and the mood on the bench is, umm, disinterested.

Our starting pitcher and three of the youngest players are at the far end of the bench in deep giggle filled conversation.  In the middle of the bench there is a gang of four, backs to the game, laughing hard.  I am surrounded by a swarm of players asking random questions, none about the game.  Two players squabble over a batting helmet.  


Chaotic behavior, the theory goes, appears random but is actually ‘deterministic,’ meaning its behavior is anything but random. There is meaning in the madness.  And in this case the theory proves true.

All of a sudden the bases are loaded and the go-ahead run stands at first.  There are two outs.  Our young rookie – new not only to the team but also to the game – walks slowly to the plate.  His only question to me all through the game – “am I up, am I up, am I up?” – is finally answered in the affirmative.  He looks afraid, alert, electric.

“Strike one!” booms the umpire.

Coaching little league is as hard as anything you can do – fly fishing, building dry stone walls, walking on the moon – and as rewarding.  At least in this corner of the world the experience has not changed from what I remember from my childhood: Big fields in small towns; lawn chairs pulled up to the field; parents talking and kids flitting around.  There is no arguing or intensity.  The coaches are friendly and eking out the best they can from small people trying hard.  It is about teaching a hard game gently.  And it is fun.

I turn back to look in the dug out, trying to find my on-deck batter (he's by the river, with a dog).  But looking at the dug out I see something to make me stop.  I have to suck in a sharp breath, as if I've been punched.  The team is – I cannot believe it – focused.  At least for the most part.  They are cheering.  On the field, our base runners rock back and forth, ready to go; Wolcott’s closer bears down to throw.  

“Strike two!”  Booms the umpire.  The count has gone full.  Winning run stands at first; tying run at second.  One more pitch.  A mighty swing.

“Strike three!”

The base runners dash in from the field and the team explodes off the bench to welcome them in.  Our mighty rookie comes in from the plate, smiling at his big-inning strike-out, thrilled.  He is met with high fives.  He leads the cheer for the Wolcott Eagles.  As we leave the field the summer sun is just below the hills and the sky is red.  The kids are laughing and head to find their parents and off we all go into the night. 

The best loss I ever coached.

(c) 2010 David Rocchio