I don’t know how much more excitement my healthy heart can take. Miguel’s CYO basketball team played a game last night that turned into a second half thriller of epic youth sports proportions.
I am the team’s assistant coach. I signed up in early September to help. They released player information and the practice schedule in October, which was when I found out that I was the sole coach.
I immediately emailed the league commissioner. I told him, given that Verna had just been diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, I was unable to shoulder the burden of coaching by myself. He responded that I should ask other team parents for help. So I sent out a request, and one parent, Martin, said he’d be happy to assist. He also offered his older son, Connor, who plays high school varsity basketball, as our real head coach.
We started practicing two weeks ago. We have nine sixth graders, eight of whom go to the same school and are fun and energetic kids. Martin and I thank the hoop gods for Connor because Martin and I know very little about the intricacies of basketball. Yes, I follow the game. But I could never draw Xs and Os and diagram plays or run a practice with a series of drills.
Regular season games do not begin until January, but earlier this week all the teams in our league, St. Isabella’s, started competing in a pre-tournament qualifier. We lost our first game on Monday to the defending league champions, a team that has played together for three years. We led most of the game and only lost by four points. Given that we’d only practiced three times to that point and one of our starters had never played organized basketball before, we were very happy with how well the kids played.
All Miguel said after the game was, “Dad, I need new basketball shoes.” During the game he was slipping all over the court and even fell once while dribbling. I looked down at his soles and, sure enough, they were worn past the treads. If automobile tires looked that worn they’d be highly illegal and dangerous.
Whether it was a case of nerves or his faulty soles, Miguel missed all his shots and was tentative on offense. On defense, he is what we call a beast, a swarming, aggressive, hands-in-your-face kind of guy.
All I said to him after the game was, “Miguel, you guys almost beat the defending champs.” Then I paused. “Hey, don’t be afraid to attack the hole and take the ball to the basket. Play like you do at the park. I don’t want you to be like me.”
But we bought him some new shoes on Thursday. I definitely don’t want him following in my footsteps.
Miguel is familiar with my sports past, a history filled with mediocrity and fear and retreat. I was a good basketball player in my immediate neighborhood, given that I was taller than just about everyone else, but at school or in leagues I was a frightened kid who often passed the ball away as soon as it touched my hands.
Miguel knows all too well the stories of my Jekyll and Hyde basketball career. I am the guy who once played a pick-up game outside my cousin’s home in Massachusetts and the other team refused to play a second game with me because I racked up so many points. But I am also the guy who scored 10 points in four years of JCC ball and that includes scoring eight points in one game.
So I don’t want him to go through his athletic life playing like his formerly skittish father who does regret his past docility.
A biting chill hung in the air as we arrived at the gym last night. Verna was there for her first night out in a while as was Maya. The game started at seven.
I tutor one of the players from the opposing team along with Miguel on Wednesday evenings. He told us the other day, “You’ll beat us.” He and Miguel are on the same Little League team.
At half-time, though, we were down 19-7. We did not score a single point in the second quarter. Our normally composed kids were racing recklessly down the court, throwing up ill-advised shots and making passes that were either telegraphed to an opponent or missed their teammates completely.
They came off the court at the half looking very dejected. Connor moved over to huddle with them. I came over and said, OK, yelled because the acoustics inside the St. Vincent’s gym are horrible, “We can win this game! It’s not over yet. Just play your game. Take good shots, make better passes, and get those hands up on defense. We can chip away at their lead. We can win this game!”
Four minutes later, the second half began. By the end of the 3rd quarter (each quarter is eight minutes), we were down three. Everyone contributed to the second half effort. Our defense tightened up as I kept shouting, “Hands up, hands in their faces.” Kids were more aggressive driving to the basket. Our two big men, Jacob and Kendal, snared a slew of rebounds. Martin’s other son, Patrick, drained two shots from the top of the key. Miguel sank his first basket, added another one with less than two minutes to go, hauled in a key rebound, and also stole the ball.
With under two minutes to go, we tied the score at 23. Jacob was on the line shooting two free throws. He missed the first, but made the second. We were ahead by one. The four kids on the bench whooped and hollered. All we had to do was hold them. They took the ball out, but turned it over. We didn’t score either. With 20 seconds left, they had one last chance to overtake us. But we prevented them from taking any good shots. All they got off was an off-balance air ball with four ticks on the clock.
Game over. We’d won after erasing a twelve point half-time deficit. We earned tonight off, and play tomorrow morning against the team that nipped us on Monday. Miguel was totally stoked at how he and the team played. Must’ve been the shoes.
Showing posts with label youth sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label youth sports. Show all posts
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Best Offense is a Good Defense
Verna met with her oncologist yesterday. One of the things the doctor said was she hopes that Verna will be able to tolerate her chemotherapy, due to start in mid-November, for several years. The oral medication, Xeloda, is designed to keep the cancer from spreading out of Verna’s bones and into major organs.
I figured I should share some of what we learned at the oncologist’s with Miguel. He is 11 and knows that Verna’s breast cancer has metastasized to her bones. A few questions rumbled through my mind as I pondered how to broach the subject with Miguel: do I tell him before school and risk ruining his day? Before bed and cause him nightmares? During the later afternoon while we are tossing a baseball or football or playing Nerf basketball in his bedroom?
We’ve told him all along, “The doctors and nurses are going to do whatever they can to help Mommy get better. If that situation changes, we will let you know.” So I didn’t see anything wrong with sharing some of the information we got from Dr. Greyz yesterday morning in her office.
“Miguel, what does the offensive line in football do?” I asked him this morning as we drove to school. His carpool buddy was home sick, so it was just father and son at 7:45 on a chilly Wednesday morning.
“They block,” he said, somewhat confused by my question.
“Right. They’re supposed to stop the defensive linemen and other defenders from breaking through and getting to the quarterback,” I explained.
He was still confused.
I continued, “That’s how the doctors hope that Mommy’s chemo pills will work. The chemo will prevent her cancer from leaving her bones and going to other parts of her body.”
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke he said, “Can I play football?”
I am reading Real Boys by William Pollack, a noted Harvard psychologist, who advises not to answer “We’ll see” or “Maybe” when a child requests something and you are unsure if you can deliver. Pollack favors total honesty with some good old fashioned explanations. So, if one of your children asks for something beyond the family’s current financial means, don’t just put them off by offering a “We’ll see” or a “Maybe later.” Be honest and say something like, “Maybe we will be able to afford that in 6 months, but right now…” Or, “What are some ways you could earn extra money to help pay for it?”
Pollack’s advice ran through my mind as I formed an answer to Miguel. I was also close to laughing because after I’d explained about Verna’s chemo, Miguel’s first response was about playing football.
“Mommy and I are not that happy about you playing football,” I said. Miguel knows we are worried about potentially serious injuries he could incur.
“But I am going to need the practice if I’m going to play for the Oregon Ducks,” he said. Miguel has been a devout Oregon Ducks fan ever since we spent time in Oregon in 2002, en route to Vancouver, and later for a week in 2006.
“What about playing baseball or basketball for the Ducks?” I responded.
“What’s wrong with football?” he said. “And I’m so good at it.”
The conversation kind of ended right there. Even though Miguel is a skinny, built for non-contact kind of guy, he wants to race down the football field and catch the winning TD. Verna and I, on the other hand, have visions of paralysis and severe head trauma.
But he does love playing football. I’ve been throwing deep bombs and short distance almost precision passes to him for several years. He dons a football helmet, mouth guard, and gloves and we practice on the field in our park or the street near behind our home. Lately, we’ve been doing punt returns, where I loft the ball high above him, which he retrieves and then tries to barrel past me for a ‘touchdown’.
Until Sunday. That is when he swept past me again with ease and I fell to the ground and nearly tore ligaments in my knee or severely bruised the bone.
So I told Verna about our conversation, and she said, “Are there still youth games going on? Maybe we could take him to one.”
Miguel has a friend who is smaller than he is and plays Pop Warner football, so our ‘you’re going to get your less than sturdy gridiron butt knocked around way too much’ argument doesn’t wash with Miguel because of his buddy.
I know that Verna is hoping Miguel will see a game up close and personal and immediately shun any present and future connection to organized football because of its real and inherent dangers. We also know that is highly unlikely given that he is a preteen and sees the game as a thrilling adventure.
So the next time he asks to play football we may have to bribe him out of it or resort to the time-tested response of “Maybe. We’ll see.”
I figured I should share some of what we learned at the oncologist’s with Miguel. He is 11 and knows that Verna’s breast cancer has metastasized to her bones. A few questions rumbled through my mind as I pondered how to broach the subject with Miguel: do I tell him before school and risk ruining his day? Before bed and cause him nightmares? During the later afternoon while we are tossing a baseball or football or playing Nerf basketball in his bedroom?
We’ve told him all along, “The doctors and nurses are going to do whatever they can to help Mommy get better. If that situation changes, we will let you know.” So I didn’t see anything wrong with sharing some of the information we got from Dr. Greyz yesterday morning in her office.
“Miguel, what does the offensive line in football do?” I asked him this morning as we drove to school. His carpool buddy was home sick, so it was just father and son at 7:45 on a chilly Wednesday morning.
“They block,” he said, somewhat confused by my question.
“Right. They’re supposed to stop the defensive linemen and other defenders from breaking through and getting to the quarterback,” I explained.
He was still confused.
I continued, “That’s how the doctors hope that Mommy’s chemo pills will work. The chemo will prevent her cancer from leaving her bones and going to other parts of her body.”
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke he said, “Can I play football?”
I am reading Real Boys by William Pollack, a noted Harvard psychologist, who advises not to answer “We’ll see” or “Maybe” when a child requests something and you are unsure if you can deliver. Pollack favors total honesty with some good old fashioned explanations. So, if one of your children asks for something beyond the family’s current financial means, don’t just put them off by offering a “We’ll see” or a “Maybe later.” Be honest and say something like, “Maybe we will be able to afford that in 6 months, but right now…” Or, “What are some ways you could earn extra money to help pay for it?”
Pollack’s advice ran through my mind as I formed an answer to Miguel. I was also close to laughing because after I’d explained about Verna’s chemo, Miguel’s first response was about playing football.
“Mommy and I are not that happy about you playing football,” I said. Miguel knows we are worried about potentially serious injuries he could incur.
“But I am going to need the practice if I’m going to play for the Oregon Ducks,” he said. Miguel has been a devout Oregon Ducks fan ever since we spent time in Oregon in 2002, en route to Vancouver, and later for a week in 2006.
“What about playing baseball or basketball for the Ducks?” I responded.
“What’s wrong with football?” he said. “And I’m so good at it.”
The conversation kind of ended right there. Even though Miguel is a skinny, built for non-contact kind of guy, he wants to race down the football field and catch the winning TD. Verna and I, on the other hand, have visions of paralysis and severe head trauma.
But he does love playing football. I’ve been throwing deep bombs and short distance almost precision passes to him for several years. He dons a football helmet, mouth guard, and gloves and we practice on the field in our park or the street near behind our home. Lately, we’ve been doing punt returns, where I loft the ball high above him, which he retrieves and then tries to barrel past me for a ‘touchdown’.
Until Sunday. That is when he swept past me again with ease and I fell to the ground and nearly tore ligaments in my knee or severely bruised the bone.
So I told Verna about our conversation, and she said, “Are there still youth games going on? Maybe we could take him to one.”
Miguel has a friend who is smaller than he is and plays Pop Warner football, so our ‘you’re going to get your less than sturdy gridiron butt knocked around way too much’ argument doesn’t wash with Miguel because of his buddy.
I know that Verna is hoping Miguel will see a game up close and personal and immediately shun any present and future connection to organized football because of its real and inherent dangers. We also know that is highly unlikely given that he is a preteen and sees the game as a thrilling adventure.
So the next time he asks to play football we may have to bribe him out of it or resort to the time-tested response of “Maybe. We’ll see.”
Monday, May 4, 2009
Manly Men
Shortly after Verna announced she and Maya were spending the weekend at her brother’s, Miguel had sketched out a Guys’ Weekend Plan.
“First we’ll play nine holes of golf,” he said. “Then we’ll go to the batting cages. And then we can go to the movies.”
“Which movies do you want to see?” He is only allowed G or PG.
“17 Again, Observe and Report.”
“Observe and Report is rated R,” I said. Then I nixed 17 Again, which is PG-13.
Sandwiched in between all the father-son bonding would be Miguel’s Saturday afternoon Little League Game and a Sunday afternoon practice.
So last Friday night we kicked off our testosterone fest with a dinner I prepared (hotdogs for Miguel, veggie burger for me, homemade fries for both of us) followed by a parentally tame movie, Cool Runnings, a cute and inspirational based-on-a-true story (of the first Jamaican Olympic bobsled team) Disney flick I hadn’t seen in many years. Miguel thought it was just OK.
“Let’s stay up and party until midnight,” Miguel said.
“Uh, no,” I said. “What kind of partying do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just that real men stay up late.”
Not real older men like his father, who just turned 50 and loves power naps nearly as much as breathing. Staying up late at my age just means getting up in the middle of the night to pee.
He was pretty tired, anyway, so he willingly went to bed around ten. It rained pretty hard at night so the coaches postponed his baseball game Saturday afternoon. Puddles had formed near each of the bases and the outfield was soggy and squishy, making the entire field unsafe for action.
However, one or two dads, undaunted by the inclement conditions, invited anyone to an informal practice at the local high school on the synthetic football field. It was drizzling slightly, but Miguel wanted to go. I had a book to read, so I reasoned to myself that an hour or so inside the car wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
When we got to the high school parking lot, I waved goodbye to Miguel, who joined up with one of the coaches and a few of his teammates, and then started reading. Three dads were on the field with six kids. I was relatively warm and dry inside the car.
Then I heard a voice. No, not some psychotic episode, but an inner one that said, “Real men don’t read in the car while the guys are frolicking on the bouncy turf at Terra Linda High.”
So I got out of the car and headed for the field, just in time to watch Andrew and Miguel, at different times, sliding and splashing across the field, laughing and screaming with giddy abandon.
It was three-on-three baseball modified to fit being played on the 50-yard line: it was a hit if you made it safely to first before the pitcher had the ball or any other base before being tagged out. Any ball hit past the goal posts was a homerun. It was so waterlogged they went through two balls, having ripped the leather off both.
I told Coach Ron and Coach Mike about our weekend.
“I guess I’m supposed to share with Miguel how to be a man,” I said. “How do I do that?”
My question was quasi-rhetorical. I know how to be a role model, but how does one explain those various insights to an 11-year-old who is not yet ready to be a man, just a preteen?
“Being a man just means accepting responsibilities and loving your family,” chimed in Mike Martino, assistant number two on Miguel’s team.
As Mike, Ron, and I talked (I was wearing Mike’s baseball glove and technically playing in the outfield for the kids’ game) a ball came soaring at me, but I missed it because I wasn’t really paying attention.
Real men can focus and multitask.
For the rest of the afternoon, Miguel talked about the practice. He absolutely loved pitching and hitting and diving on the fake grass and getting soaked so much that he couldn’t pull off his baseball socks without his father’s help.
After we came home and Miguel put on dry clothes, I walked the dog (because, as Mike rightly noted, real men do meet their responsibilities) before he and I went out to dinner. We went to Pinky’s, local pizza joint and sports bar, to watch the 7th game of the Celtics-Bulls playoff series and so Miguel could play video games. Then we rented two movies, The Express, based on the true story of Ernie Davis, a phenomenal college football player who died of leukemia when he was 23, and College Road Trip, probably one of the only G-rated movies Martin Lawrence will ever do unless there is a sequel. It’s about a father who has a hard time letting go of his graduating high school daughter.
Both movies were actually perfect for our guys’ weekend. The Express was not only about Davis’ life (he was the first African-American to win the Heisman Trophy, awarded annually to the nation’s top collegiate football player), but how he played with an unshakeable sense of pride and determination during racially tumultuous times. So Miguel and I got to talk about values.
In one scene, when Davis’ top ranked Syracuse Orangemen faced number two Texas in the Cotton Bowl in hostile Texas, fans showered him and his teammates with soda, beer, popcorn, and bottles. Miguel looked utterly shocked that people behaved so horribly toward Davis just because he was Black.
“And this wasn’t even fifty years ago,” I said, trying to halt a full-on lecture. “Look at all those people, young and old, being so bad. Can you believe it?”
He just shook his head and looked genuinely flabbergasted.
College Road Trip was goofy as Martin Lawrence, a police chief outside Chicago, plotted unsuccessfully to corral his lovely daughter, played by Raven-Symone (once a young star on The Cosby Show), into going to a local university.
As I realized that Miguel, now 11, would be off to college in seven years, meaning he’s been with us longer than it will be for him to leave, tears streamed down my cheeks. I completely empathized with Lawrence’s character, for I understood his anxiety and inner turmoil. And I also agreed when he yielded to his higher self and let his daughter make her own choices.
Sunday brought more intermittent rain and a cancellation of Miguel’s practice. We started off the day at the Farmer’s Market, where Miguel ate a chicken-apple sausage and a Hansen’s soda and a Bavarian pretzel. Then we played miniature golf.
In the afternoon, I took care of a few responsibilities, which involved walking the dog (Miguel helped throughout the weekend) and laundry. Then we went bowling. We stopped at Whole Food’s on the way home so Miguel could pick out some dinner for himself. After dinner, we played catch, for the sun was finally out, and I pitched to Miguel so he could practice (for the first time) batting left-handed.
Here’s what I learned or was reminded of about real men over the weekend:
1. Real men are responsible. Miguel had an offer to join a friend in San Francisco Sunday afternoon, but I said, “Miguel, real men meet their commitments. You have practice and they’re counting on you.”
2. Real men can have fun. OK, I kind of balked on this one. Although I yanked my sorry butt out of the car to play baseball at the high school, I did not hurl my body across the water-saturated field. Next time, though, I am diving head first into something.
3. Real men have to spend a lot of money. If you add up dinner on Saturday evening, eating and shopping for fruit at the Farmer’s Market, one game of miniature golf, and two games of bowling, we easily spent close to $150.
And it was worth every damn cent. For it was not about the money, which we don’t really have, but about the time Miguel and I spent together, time we could also spend (and have spent) without shelling out too much dough.
At one point during the second movie on Saturday night, as it neared 10:30, well past Miguel’s usual bedtime, he leaned against me and put his head on my chest. He wanted to cuddle as he struggled slightly to stay awake (either that or he was so tired that he needed me just to keep him from nodding off). Yes, real men can hug and hold each other for comfort, especially a father and son.
“First we’ll play nine holes of golf,” he said. “Then we’ll go to the batting cages. And then we can go to the movies.”
“Which movies do you want to see?” He is only allowed G or PG.
“17 Again, Observe and Report.”
“Observe and Report is rated R,” I said. Then I nixed 17 Again, which is PG-13.
Sandwiched in between all the father-son bonding would be Miguel’s Saturday afternoon Little League Game and a Sunday afternoon practice.
So last Friday night we kicked off our testosterone fest with a dinner I prepared (hotdogs for Miguel, veggie burger for me, homemade fries for both of us) followed by a parentally tame movie, Cool Runnings, a cute and inspirational based-on-a-true story (of the first Jamaican Olympic bobsled team) Disney flick I hadn’t seen in many years. Miguel thought it was just OK.
“Let’s stay up and party until midnight,” Miguel said.
“Uh, no,” I said. “What kind of partying do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just that real men stay up late.”
Not real older men like his father, who just turned 50 and loves power naps nearly as much as breathing. Staying up late at my age just means getting up in the middle of the night to pee.
He was pretty tired, anyway, so he willingly went to bed around ten. It rained pretty hard at night so the coaches postponed his baseball game Saturday afternoon. Puddles had formed near each of the bases and the outfield was soggy and squishy, making the entire field unsafe for action.
However, one or two dads, undaunted by the inclement conditions, invited anyone to an informal practice at the local high school on the synthetic football field. It was drizzling slightly, but Miguel wanted to go. I had a book to read, so I reasoned to myself that an hour or so inside the car wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
When we got to the high school parking lot, I waved goodbye to Miguel, who joined up with one of the coaches and a few of his teammates, and then started reading. Three dads were on the field with six kids. I was relatively warm and dry inside the car.
Then I heard a voice. No, not some psychotic episode, but an inner one that said, “Real men don’t read in the car while the guys are frolicking on the bouncy turf at Terra Linda High.”
So I got out of the car and headed for the field, just in time to watch Andrew and Miguel, at different times, sliding and splashing across the field, laughing and screaming with giddy abandon.
It was three-on-three baseball modified to fit being played on the 50-yard line: it was a hit if you made it safely to first before the pitcher had the ball or any other base before being tagged out. Any ball hit past the goal posts was a homerun. It was so waterlogged they went through two balls, having ripped the leather off both.
I told Coach Ron and Coach Mike about our weekend.
“I guess I’m supposed to share with Miguel how to be a man,” I said. “How do I do that?”
My question was quasi-rhetorical. I know how to be a role model, but how does one explain those various insights to an 11-year-old who is not yet ready to be a man, just a preteen?
“Being a man just means accepting responsibilities and loving your family,” chimed in Mike Martino, assistant number two on Miguel’s team.
As Mike, Ron, and I talked (I was wearing Mike’s baseball glove and technically playing in the outfield for the kids’ game) a ball came soaring at me, but I missed it because I wasn’t really paying attention.
Real men can focus and multitask.
For the rest of the afternoon, Miguel talked about the practice. He absolutely loved pitching and hitting and diving on the fake grass and getting soaked so much that he couldn’t pull off his baseball socks without his father’s help.
After we came home and Miguel put on dry clothes, I walked the dog (because, as Mike rightly noted, real men do meet their responsibilities) before he and I went out to dinner. We went to Pinky’s, local pizza joint and sports bar, to watch the 7th game of the Celtics-Bulls playoff series and so Miguel could play video games. Then we rented two movies, The Express, based on the true story of Ernie Davis, a phenomenal college football player who died of leukemia when he was 23, and College Road Trip, probably one of the only G-rated movies Martin Lawrence will ever do unless there is a sequel. It’s about a father who has a hard time letting go of his graduating high school daughter.
Both movies were actually perfect for our guys’ weekend. The Express was not only about Davis’ life (he was the first African-American to win the Heisman Trophy, awarded annually to the nation’s top collegiate football player), but how he played with an unshakeable sense of pride and determination during racially tumultuous times. So Miguel and I got to talk about values.
In one scene, when Davis’ top ranked Syracuse Orangemen faced number two Texas in the Cotton Bowl in hostile Texas, fans showered him and his teammates with soda, beer, popcorn, and bottles. Miguel looked utterly shocked that people behaved so horribly toward Davis just because he was Black.
“And this wasn’t even fifty years ago,” I said, trying to halt a full-on lecture. “Look at all those people, young and old, being so bad. Can you believe it?”
He just shook his head and looked genuinely flabbergasted.
College Road Trip was goofy as Martin Lawrence, a police chief outside Chicago, plotted unsuccessfully to corral his lovely daughter, played by Raven-Symone (once a young star on The Cosby Show), into going to a local university.
As I realized that Miguel, now 11, would be off to college in seven years, meaning he’s been with us longer than it will be for him to leave, tears streamed down my cheeks. I completely empathized with Lawrence’s character, for I understood his anxiety and inner turmoil. And I also agreed when he yielded to his higher self and let his daughter make her own choices.
Sunday brought more intermittent rain and a cancellation of Miguel’s practice. We started off the day at the Farmer’s Market, where Miguel ate a chicken-apple sausage and a Hansen’s soda and a Bavarian pretzel. Then we played miniature golf.
In the afternoon, I took care of a few responsibilities, which involved walking the dog (Miguel helped throughout the weekend) and laundry. Then we went bowling. We stopped at Whole Food’s on the way home so Miguel could pick out some dinner for himself. After dinner, we played catch, for the sun was finally out, and I pitched to Miguel so he could practice (for the first time) batting left-handed.
Here’s what I learned or was reminded of about real men over the weekend:
1. Real men are responsible. Miguel had an offer to join a friend in San Francisco Sunday afternoon, but I said, “Miguel, real men meet their commitments. You have practice and they’re counting on you.”
2. Real men can have fun. OK, I kind of balked on this one. Although I yanked my sorry butt out of the car to play baseball at the high school, I did not hurl my body across the water-saturated field. Next time, though, I am diving head first into something.
3. Real men have to spend a lot of money. If you add up dinner on Saturday evening, eating and shopping for fruit at the Farmer’s Market, one game of miniature golf, and two games of bowling, we easily spent close to $150.
And it was worth every damn cent. For it was not about the money, which we don’t really have, but about the time Miguel and I spent together, time we could also spend (and have spent) without shelling out too much dough.
At one point during the second movie on Saturday night, as it neared 10:30, well past Miguel’s usual bedtime, he leaned against me and put his head on my chest. He wanted to cuddle as he struggled slightly to stay awake (either that or he was so tired that he needed me just to keep him from nodding off). Yes, real men can hug and hold each other for comfort, especially a father and son.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Fair or Foul?
Little League parents signed a pledge at the beginning of the season that we would behave in the stands during games and at practices.
I should’ve known better.
Years ago, friends of mine in Connecticut, Ed and Denise Sanady, told me Little League horror stories: parents red-shirting their 10-year-olds so they’d be drafted by better teams and dubious scouting. I was astounded. How could adults poison what is essentially a kids game? Their stories left an impression on me, but apparently not enough.
Now that I am an adult with a son on a Little League majors’ team (the Yankees), the road to hell, er, Nirvana is paved with…
Last night, we played the A’s, a team we’d nipped a few weeks back when their centerfielder’s throw sailed past the catcher and threw the backstop with the bases loaded. The A’s were ahead, 3-2, in the bottom of the 4th when they erupted for seven runs. At one point, there were either two men on or the bases were loaded. The A’s batter ripped a hard shot just past the kid on 3rd. He had to quickly scoot out of the way to avoid getting pummeled in the stomach. The ball skidded foul into left field.
Amazingly, the umpire, who is just a teenager, ruled the ball fair, which emptied the bases. Yankee parents roared foul loudly and incredulously as one, two, three A’s runners circled the bases.
The Yankees head coach, Ron, calmly walked out to the umpire, who called in his associate, another teen, from the field. They explained that the ball had hit the 3rd base bag, so it was therefore fair.
The umpire was wrong, as all the parents so clearly and plainly saw. But that is not the point.
Verna and I teach Miguel that 1). You let the umpires rulings stand and you don’t argue and 2). You move on quickly and quietly.
We did neither. I did yell, “It was foul.” Once. Then I shut up. But the collective chorus was not silent for a few minutes. Another parent shouted. One grandfather said he was going to write to the League president. He said it to us in the stands, so it was possible the young umpire behind the plate did not hear him. But still…
An inning of two later, Miguel came up to bat for his second time. He sliced a ball hard and foul down the leftfield line. I chimed in, “Was that fair?” just before one of Miguel’s teammates from the dugout yelled, “Was that fair?”
Uh-oh. We weren’t modeling for our kids. We’d violated several rules—challenging anything from the stands—and ignored the oath we’d signed in January.
But it was hard. Not only were the Yankees getting beaten, but there were two or three blatantly wrong calls against us. Losing isn’t as bad as feeling cheated. Woe is us.
As the parents were fuming and the steam was rising out of our ears and foreheads, I knew we were wrong. The dictum has to be that the umpire is always right, especially when he is a kid not much older than the players. Sports and other competitive contests are imperfect dramas, but we still must respect their essential core. It’s just a game.
Well, for some at least. There is another team, the Blue Jays, which won 20 of its 21 games last year. Their only loss came to us, 2-1, on a daring bunt by Miguel. The Blue Jays are undefeated this year, and have beaten us twice already. They are good. But they are bullies.
One of their players tried to entice one of our runners, Connor, off second base after he’d doubled by politely asking him to step off the bag so he could straighten it. If Connor had moved, he would’ve been out. Only the umpire can call time.
The Blue Jays, who drafted last this year by virtue of winning the league championship last year, engineered the first pick in the draft (in the eighth position) because they recruited his father to be one of their assistants.
See, league rules state that a player must be drafted by the team for which their parent coaches. So the Blue Jays quietly brought in another helper in order to land the top prospect even though they chose him last in the first round.
I sometimes wonder how much better youth baseball would be without adult intervention. A few weeks ago, after one of the Yankees’ practices, the parents organized a virtually impromptu barbecue. As the parents munched and chatted, the kids played various baseball-type games on the grass beyond the centerfield fence. They played pickle and a few other games, laughing and joshing with each other, with tackling thrown in for good measure. Silliness reigned and they didn’t come up for air until we called them over for dessert.
Youth baseball without parents would be great, certainly for the kids. No adult intervention would mean less stress and more fun, I am convinced. I’m going to lobby the board shortly.
Yeah, right.
I should’ve known better.
Years ago, friends of mine in Connecticut, Ed and Denise Sanady, told me Little League horror stories: parents red-shirting their 10-year-olds so they’d be drafted by better teams and dubious scouting. I was astounded. How could adults poison what is essentially a kids game? Their stories left an impression on me, but apparently not enough.
Now that I am an adult with a son on a Little League majors’ team (the Yankees), the road to hell, er, Nirvana is paved with…
Last night, we played the A’s, a team we’d nipped a few weeks back when their centerfielder’s throw sailed past the catcher and threw the backstop with the bases loaded. The A’s were ahead, 3-2, in the bottom of the 4th when they erupted for seven runs. At one point, there were either two men on or the bases were loaded. The A’s batter ripped a hard shot just past the kid on 3rd. He had to quickly scoot out of the way to avoid getting pummeled in the stomach. The ball skidded foul into left field.
Amazingly, the umpire, who is just a teenager, ruled the ball fair, which emptied the bases. Yankee parents roared foul loudly and incredulously as one, two, three A’s runners circled the bases.
The Yankees head coach, Ron, calmly walked out to the umpire, who called in his associate, another teen, from the field. They explained that the ball had hit the 3rd base bag, so it was therefore fair.
The umpire was wrong, as all the parents so clearly and plainly saw. But that is not the point.
Verna and I teach Miguel that 1). You let the umpires rulings stand and you don’t argue and 2). You move on quickly and quietly.
We did neither. I did yell, “It was foul.” Once. Then I shut up. But the collective chorus was not silent for a few minutes. Another parent shouted. One grandfather said he was going to write to the League president. He said it to us in the stands, so it was possible the young umpire behind the plate did not hear him. But still…
An inning of two later, Miguel came up to bat for his second time. He sliced a ball hard and foul down the leftfield line. I chimed in, “Was that fair?” just before one of Miguel’s teammates from the dugout yelled, “Was that fair?”
Uh-oh. We weren’t modeling for our kids. We’d violated several rules—challenging anything from the stands—and ignored the oath we’d signed in January.
But it was hard. Not only were the Yankees getting beaten, but there were two or three blatantly wrong calls against us. Losing isn’t as bad as feeling cheated. Woe is us.
As the parents were fuming and the steam was rising out of our ears and foreheads, I knew we were wrong. The dictum has to be that the umpire is always right, especially when he is a kid not much older than the players. Sports and other competitive contests are imperfect dramas, but we still must respect their essential core. It’s just a game.
Well, for some at least. There is another team, the Blue Jays, which won 20 of its 21 games last year. Their only loss came to us, 2-1, on a daring bunt by Miguel. The Blue Jays are undefeated this year, and have beaten us twice already. They are good. But they are bullies.
One of their players tried to entice one of our runners, Connor, off second base after he’d doubled by politely asking him to step off the bag so he could straighten it. If Connor had moved, he would’ve been out. Only the umpire can call time.
The Blue Jays, who drafted last this year by virtue of winning the league championship last year, engineered the first pick in the draft (in the eighth position) because they recruited his father to be one of their assistants.
See, league rules state that a player must be drafted by the team for which their parent coaches. So the Blue Jays quietly brought in another helper in order to land the top prospect even though they chose him last in the first round.
I sometimes wonder how much better youth baseball would be without adult intervention. A few weeks ago, after one of the Yankees’ practices, the parents organized a virtually impromptu barbecue. As the parents munched and chatted, the kids played various baseball-type games on the grass beyond the centerfield fence. They played pickle and a few other games, laughing and joshing with each other, with tackling thrown in for good measure. Silliness reigned and they didn’t come up for air until we called them over for dessert.
Youth baseball without parents would be great, certainly for the kids. No adult intervention would mean less stress and more fun, I am convinced. I’m going to lobby the board shortly.
Yeah, right.
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