by Michael Conlon
Before I take my second step from the concrete dugout to the grass, I catch myself, look toward home, then deliver the code.
“Blue?”
The iron bars that protect his face turn in my direction. I stretch my right hand horizontally above my raised left hand, make the sign of the “T,” then wait. After checking to see that all motion has ceased on the field, he thrusts both arms toward the darkening sky, and declares for all to hear — “Time!”
I know him as Bob, a local C.P.A., married with no kids, a friendly sort if I catch him standing behind the stands, spitting out sunflower seed shells, waiting his turn to assert domain over 18 boys — 10 and 11-year-old boys — and their parents. Because of the latter, I address him on the field by his widely accepted, yet unofficial title and outfit color, “Blue.” This reassures our own and the opposing parents that I would never attempt a personal association, nor ask for personal favoritism from such an error-prone, unfairly-biased individual. He grins my request for a time out, knowing either I can’t count or haven’t memorized section 3-3-7 of the Little League rulebook.
“It’s your third visit,” he chimes, assuring me that I won’t be required to remove my pitcher, Roger, from the game.
I sidle up to the foul line, much like Archie Graham toes the gravel in Field of Dreams, and wait for Roger to slouch over from the pitching mound. For some reason, the higher powers in Little League, sometime between when I last played and first decided to manage, had decided that an adult crossing onto the field of play was either an unacceptable time-consuming process or an invitation for the whole team to join in a discussion of whose fault the last play was. In any case, I have made the adjustment, in fact have become a master of the 15-second pep talk (we’re talking 10 and 11-year-old attention span here). The key, as Earl Weaver or Walter Mathau might tell you, is 1) anticipate the problem, then 2) solve it before it occurs.
For example, my first visit of the inning took place after a bunt “home run” by their diminutive second baseman. Like a pinball, the baseball seemed to have picked up momentum with every hand it touched, traveling first from the trusty fingers of my third baseman, Steady Eddie, ten feet in front of home plate over Juan’s glove at first base and into the foul territory down the right field line. Hughie, now disengaged from a detailed analysis of a dandelion by a cacophony of shouts and fingers pointing from the field and stands, located the elusive white, threaded cowhide, picked it up, and launched it high above second baseman Joey and shortstop Brooks, finally dribbling into the leftfield foul territory. As the batter’s little legs staggered around third, Marky reached the hot potato and sent it flying home, intended for A.J.’s pounding catcher’s mitt, yet lodging with a twang into the chain link fence 20 feet above and behind home plate.
Roger tried to convince me that his current supporting defensive cast was incapable of catching anything else for the rest of their given time on this earth (My translation. His version was “They all suck.”). I reassured him that it wasn’t his fault, that they were trying their best, and at least there were no base runners to worry about. I walked back to the dugout as three dads yelled out to Roger conflicting suggestions as to how he might more effectively contort various parts of his anatomy before releasing the next pitch for greater accuracy.
My second visit of the inning was prompted by Roger’s walking the next three batters, then thunking the fourth in the helmet (a boy named “Tito Tito Tito” judging from the piercing screams from his mother in the snack bar). I made my way to the edge of the field amidst the boos of opposing parents while two dads (apparently a paramedic — “Don’t move, don’t move,” and a lawyer — “Stay down. Stay down”) tended to the stricken victim now writhing in Oscar-worthy pain amidst his spotlight in the diamond dirt. I encouraged my slack-jawed young hurler with my collection of can’t-miss platitudes — “It’s not your fault, Roger, accidents happen. The rest of the batters will be scared to death of you. Don’t aim it — just throw it. We’re only down by eight, it’s only the second inning. I’ll buy you some Big Chew if you can get one more out.”
However, Roger only cheered up when, Lazarus-like, Tito arose from the dust and bounded toward first base, his legendary status at tomorrow’s school lunch tables assured. On my way back to the dugout, A.J. walked over, covered his mouth with his mitt to avoid detection by lip-readers on the other side, and whispered, “Should I change the signs my dad’s been flashing me to give to Roger?” Considering that Roger had only one pitch, I said “Sure.”
So here I stand, a third time at the foul line. It isn’t A.J.’s missing the next pitch which bounced off Bob’s…er…Blue’s ankle, allowing one run to score. It isn’t A.J.’s return throw over Roger’s head into centerfield, allowing the second run in. It isn’t even Brooks checking out the scoreboard to see if we have qualified to forfeit the game via the 10-run mercy rule while a groundball trickles between his feet, sending Lazarus home. No, it is something much worse, something that even most big-league managers (besides Tom Hanks) are not equipped to deal with. Roger is crying.
When I first encountered this little league phenomena where peer pressure and unrealistic parental expectations collide with innate human immaturity, usually resulting from a strike out, error, or misplaced mitt, I tried the direct approach with the player—”Hey, come on now, what’s the matter, what’s the big deal? We’re having fun, aren’t we?” The stricken looks on the victims’ faces set me straight–this was Armageddon, the end of the world, the black hole from which no traveler returns, and I might as well be calling for reinforcements at Little Big Horn as far as they were concerned.
After some thought, I prepared for the next outburst of moisture with a classically proven formula — comic relief. If Osric or the Porter could deflect the audience from the homicidal tragedies of Hamlet or Macbeth, surely, I could transport a young boy from depths of despair. Upon the next tragic miscue, I chimed in —”Hey, who died? What, you lose a leg or something? They run out of pizza at the snack bar?”— but this attempt produced no comic relief, just more sobbing tears. As the season progressed, I even tried comparative commiseration —”Hey, this isn’t half as bad as the last time you cried, is it?” Unfortunately, a 10-year old’s memory is selective and short.
So, I tell A.J. to go over to the screen and talk over some strategy with his dad, get down on one knee (staying in foul territory, of course) and look up at the glistening cheeks and red eyes of my martyred hurler. With Knute Rockne on one shoulder and Mother Theresa on the other, I wait for those sad eyes to rise and meet mine, then offer —”You know, Roger, I think that maybe we should let Billy finish pitching the inning…”
Without a word, Roger storms back to the mound, fires three bullets past their clean-up hitter, and is back in the dugout spitting sunflower seed shells into upturned batting helmets before you can say “Snips and snails, and puppy dogs’ tails.”
I guess there is some lesson here about the law of supply and demand, or survival of the fittest. But I don’t have time to figure it out. Luis can’t find his second batting glove, Eddie’s mother has arrived to take him to a birthday pool party, and Brooks is beginning to do the bathroom dance, so I have to scour the depths of my equipment bag and find his emergency card to see who can legally escort him to the john. Ah, the heck with it.
“Blue?”
Michael Conlon is a retired high school English teacher and softball coach from Southern California, who lasted one year coaching his son’s Little League team. The kids were great. Endless tryouts and drafting, searching for and squatting on potential practice fields pockmarked with holes where “stay down on the ball” risked a potential trip to the plastic surgeon, and explaining playing time, batting orders, and strategy to parents dampened his enthusiasm for the national pastime. He wondered if it was always like this. From the end of Field of Dreams II — “Hey, Dad, you want to coach?”