Even Franny Hit the Ball
Managing a youth baseball team involves more than just doling-out snack assignments to parents.
With my two young grandsons in tow this past weekend, I took the opportunity to take them to a local baseball field, with the intention of teaching them to hit a baseball. I was reminded of the time I had spent managing my three children’s baseball teams - I prided myself on my ability to ensure that every kid on the team hit the ball.
The older grandson, a seven-year-old, gamely stepped into the batter’s box, and took his cuts; he made good contact, and, on his last at-bat, slapped a line-drive into the outfield, circling the bases before I and his five-year-old brother could track down the ball. The five-year-old mostly spent his time at the park gathering up stones, which he foisted upon me for safekeeping. It’s a wonder I was even able to pitch the baseball, given the massive amount of stones stuffed in my pants-pockets, weighting me down.
During practices years ago, with my kids’ teams which I coached, I spent time working with each child, ensuring that they could make contact with the ball, come game-time. The first level was tee-ball, in which the kids would swing at a ball placed atop a tee perched on home-plate. You might imagine that step to be a no-brainer, but you’d be surprised by the number of swings which landed either above the ball, or squarely on the tee support, causing the ball to drop down to the ground. With some players, after four or five of those outcomes, we pretended that the ball had been hit, and encouraged them to run to first base, taking a page out of the Major League Baseball (MLB) playbook, in which steps have been taken to hasten the pace of the game (I should point out that I am not for a moment suggesting that MLB uses batting tees during games, and they rarely, if ever, pretend as if a ball has been batted when it has not; they have adopted other strategies for moving games along).
So, what was my secret to coaxing hits out of my young batters, you may ask? Well, I wouldn’t argue that I was some sort of “bat-whisperer,” who was able to utilize Black Magic in producing hit-after-hit. And, I wasn’t deemed to be the Charlie Lau of my generation (Charlie was a much-respected MLB hitting coach who practiced his craft during the 1960’s and 1970’s, dying of cancer at the tender age of fifty), possessing tremendous insight into the art of hitting a baseball. No, I taught players to swing level, and I would carefully aim my pitch at that level bat - pretty simple stuff, eh?
I very much enjoyed managing those little league baseball teams, in part because it allowed me to establish a special connection with my own kids, but also because I liked introducing other youngsters to the game. The teams I managed were required to ensure equal playing-time for all players, and to allow them to spend time at all positions. As kids got older, they became slotted into specific positions, and those with greater talent received more playing-time, which, you guessed it, invited plenty of unwanted feedback from parents. That’s the point at which I recused myself from managing.
Some parents would compliment my willingness to manage teams of youngsters, who were practicing a brand of baseball which was not particularly well-honed. Before you consider nominating me for the “Albert Schweitzer Most-Patient Baseball Manager Ever” award, understand that I took the easy way out, not coaching teams which were expected to compete, and to win. Baseball was still fun, and parents were focused on providing tasty and nutritious post-game snacks for the team, rather than badgering the manager over their child’s lack of playing-time.
Speaking of snacks, I don’t recall encountering the “Snack Provider Arms Race,” artfully portrayed in an Everybody Loves Raymond episode; no one ever set up an omelette-station, or served cracked-crab, or sushi on the sidelines after a game. Mostly, if they remembered at all, they would pick up a couple of boxes of Rice Krispies Treats and juice-boxes on the way to the game. And, I can’t stress this enough, when you are assigned to bring snacks, for the love of God, make sure you bring enough for the younger brothers and sisters to enjoy as well; and, your “Albert Schweitzer Most-Patient Baseball Manager Ever” wasn’t averse to joining in at snack-time.
One of the hallmarks of my tenure as little league baseball manager was the “Home Run Base-Running High-Five Drill,” which became a staple of team practices, and, also just before the start of games. All of the kids ran the bases, and reached home plate, at which point I was positioned (usually on my knees, in order to meet them where they were) to give them a high-five, in recognition of the special journey around the bases which they had just completed. In retrospect, perhaps that was a bit too much showmanship for the other team to stomach - let me be clear that I meant no disrespect to the other team - I was merely engaging my inner Rule No. 3, before Rule No. 3 was cool.
Not that I didn’t make mistakes along the way. One of the first practices I led was on a baseball-field in a massive park, which also featured a significant sledding-hill about a hundred yards away. My physical conditioning instinct was to ask the team to run up to the top of the sledding-hill, and back down, returning to the field ready and raring to go to work. Well, by the time the kids returned to the field, they were exhausted, and not so much ready and raring to go to work. In fact, that may have been the genesis of the “Home Run Base-Running High-Five Drill,” a much less intense warmup.
I also recall getting plunked in the head by a point-blank throw from one of my players, stationed about three feet away from me, when I was glancing in another direction, knocking my sunglasses flying. If you think a toss from an eight-year-old of a tee-ball is no big deal, well, I’m here to tell you, it hurt. And, not just my pride - my face too.
There should be a primer provided to parents about the game of baseball, in order that they understand the finer points of the game, and avoid potentially embarrassing their children. My wife informed me that she yelled at an opposing pitcher, who she felt was disrespecting our oldest son, who was batting at the time, by throwing four straight pitches well outside the strike-zone. That’s right, the pitcher was employing the “intentional walk” strategy, which time doesn’t permit me to review with you here; suffice to say, there was no disrespect involved - in fact, an intentional walk implies great respect. And, don’t get me started on the “infield fly rule” - literally no one understands that rule.
My middle son earned a well-deserved, league-wide sportsmanship award, due to his always-amiable approach to the game: he was a supportive teammate, with a smile permanently affixed to his face. And, my daughter loved to play catch and practice hitting on the sidelines with me, during her brothers’ games; during one game she spent time pounding my pitches, from both sides of the plate!
Finally, Franny, the inspiration for the headline of this piece, was a young girl on one of the teams I managed, who was left-handed, and not terribly coordinated. She was also very shy, and it was difficult to discern any emotion in her. Her batting-stance may have been comparable to the young man pictured atop this column - c’mon man, get those hands together on the bat, and swing level! You know, so the coach can properly hit your bat. But, I know that I hit her bat at least once that season.
My exceptional talent for managing baseball (he said, tongue firmly in cheek) didn’t necessarily translate well to other fields of play. I was handed the keys to coaching one of my kids’ basketball teams, as well as joining my daughter’s soccer team, as an assistant coach. I was out of my element, because there was no home-run trot to practice in either sport. Perhaps I could have been successful in coaching a football team; I would have embraced the concept of the “Touchdown Endzone Celebration” - I think I could have crafted some excellent drills to perfect our touchdown celebrations. As long as there were snacks. . .
Enjoyed this read, Bill! Funniest 'Dad as baseball coach' moment I have is when the kids who were 8 years old were playing a game and my husband was their coach. The umpire didn't show and my husband Peter reluctantly agreed to be the ump so the game could it go on! Our son Max was at bat and he hit a long one out to left field. The outfielder caught the ball and, immediately, his glove left his hand and fell to the grass with the ball still in the glove! We spectators were stunned! It was an amazing feat of aerodynamics (or something) that the ball didn't roll out of the glove when it flew off the outfielder's hand onto the ground. All eyes were on the (stand in) ump. Now Peter knew the call should have been SAFE because the catcher has to be in control of the ball when it's caught. But, not wanting to seem to favor his son, Peter called Max out. Moral? Double check that the umpire is indeed coming to the game!
Go Green Machines!