Chapter Fifteen: Bonding Activities, Part Two (Striking out at T-Ball)​​​

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     As un-American as it sounds, I’ve always hated baseball. In some ways, that was only fair – the sport clearly hated me back. Competent, if not skilled at football and basketball, the art of hitting and catching a small white spheroid completely eluded me, as if the ball spotted my bat and glove and would head anywhere else just out of sheer revulsion. Seeing me on the diamond, the more sexist of my friends accused me of playing like a girl. In truth, playing like a girl was more aspirational than fact; ninety-nine percent of the girls I knew played baseball far better than I ever could.    

 

     With that sordid athletic history, I was ill-equipped for Alma’s next attempt at parental bonding. Without asking me, my wife signed Emily up for T-Ball.

 

     Unknown in my parents' youth, T-Ball was designed for kids five to six years old who couldn't throw or hit a traditional pitch if their lives depended on it. Not willing to have children put their lives in danger, the sport's creators decided to place the ball on a stand (or tee) supported by a base designed to look like home plate. The ball standing helplessly in front of them; they hoped kids could then hit and run the bases just like traditional baseball players.

 

     As anyone who watched a T-Ball game could attest, this hope was, at best, highly delusional. While most kids genuinely tried to hit the ball off the tee, the game's creators never contended with the average five to six-year-old's lack of fine muscle control. With parents watching proudly from the stands, their kids would hack at the ball with all the determination of a picnicker attempting to ward off a horde of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. The plastic tees took the brunt of the beating; most coaches brought two or three to a game to ensure a replacement for those not strong enough to survive the inevitable slaughter."

 

     There were exceptions. One or two kids, anomalies in the crowd of uncoordinated preschoolers, would stride to the plate and manage to hit the ball into the outfield. Those events would result in a different sort of melee as all nine kids in the field would converge where the ball landed, none having any idea what to do with the unfortunate object should they be lucky enough to find it.

 

     I only witnessed one instance where an outfield hit did not result in a home run. In that case, the hitter, either from shock or lack of interest, took a detour while rounding first base to head for the bench and an early cup of Kool-Aid. The coach attempted to guide the reluctant player back to second, but the young man refused to leave until completely draining his cup. Oblivious to their opportunity, the other team’s outfield decided instead to engage in an impromptu game of catch. Eventually maneuvered back to second, the runner remained there for the duration of the outfield festivities. In fairness, he had some justification - his team was already up twenty-seven to eight.

 

     None of this was on my mind the day Alma came up with part two of her grand bonding plan. I just assumed she had gone nuts.

 

     I stared in disbelief. “You realize I hate baseball?”

 

     “Not a problem – they aren’t asking you to play.”

 

     “You promise I won’t have to coach?”

 

     “I would never do that to a bunch of impressionable young minds. All you have to do is take Emily to practice. Once you’re there, you can play with Jack in the stands.”

 

     Alma’s assurance was of little comfort - I had already experienced how these things could escalate. Nonetheless, I had no good argument. On a warm day in early June, I drove Emily and Jack to the baseball field a few blocks from our home.

 

     Once there, I was greeted by a harried Ron Kaczynski, coach of the South Euclid Sparrows. I introduced Ron to Emily and made what I thought was a friendly comment about his name.

 

     “There’s no chance you’re related to Ted, are you?”

 

     Looking even more disgusted, Ron asked, “Do you have any idea how many times I’m asked that question?”

The T-Ball bat in his hand suddenly looked threatening, so I sat down without further comment. Jack and I chose seats in the stands amidst a group of mothers, all chatting or using their cell phones.

 

     Ron, the faux Unabomber, began practice by lining up his players, placing the ball on the tee, and having the kids practice their hitting. The first batter, a cute little girl in pigtails, started the festivities by almost taking Ron out before he could back away. Stunned by his brush with death, Ron muttered under his breath what I’m sure were words of encouragement.

 

     Practice went more smoothly after Ron’s near decapitation. The Sparrows, an even mix of five and six-year-old neighborhood children, were taught how to hit, field, and throw to the correct base. The team listened diligently to Ron as he tried to emphasize the finer points of baseball.   

 

     Unfortunately for Ron, listening and doing were two very different things. During batting practice, I saw attempts at hitting left-handed, right-handed, and, in one very odd case, a young man who swung golf style and knocked both ball and tee on a line half-way to the first baseman. In terms of sheer power, that was probably the best hit I witnessed that day.

 

     Sadly for Emily, she inherited her father’s baseball skills. My daughter did manage to hit the ball once, a dribbler that went about three feet toward the pitcher. To her credit, Emily never stopped running, parlaying four errant throws and one home plate drop to her first T-Ball home run.

 

     With so many players on her team, Emily’s batting attempts were few. During those down periods, I took to watching Ron, the Sparrow’s manager, who appeared to be melting down right before my eyes.

In truth, Ron fit the template of most little league managers - determined, caring, enthusiastic, and eager to teach. Like many, he appeared secretly convinced that his work, if successful, might bring him to the attention of some major league team.

 

     If that was Ron’s goal, the Sparrows beat it out of him in short order. The team’s hitting was enthusiastic, if somewhat misguided. Some of his players approached the plate with uncertainty, as if afraid the ball they were swiping at might somehow hit them back. Others were more energetic. One eager young man looked like he was attempting to ward off a particularly nasty home invasion.

 

     Two or three hits made their way past the infield, more by accident than real intent. In one of those cases, the batter was swinging at an early June fly who had the misfortune of trespassing too near the action at home plate. The ball, assisted by a poorly timed lunge by the team’s shortstop, ended up just on the edge of the outfield grass. The fly flew away unharmed.

 

     While the team’s hitting was less than optimal, their fielding was even worse. Five and six-year-old attention spans lasting only slightly longer than your average flea, the Sparrows spent much of their time in the field playing in the grass, talking to their outfield mates, or, for those few who had one, looking at God knows what on their cell phones.

 

     Witnessing the death of his imaginary major league career, Ron spent more and more time looking at his own cell phone. I thought perhaps he had given up, solitaire being more interesting than Sparrows’ baseball. After a few minutes, however, Ron stuffed his phone in his pocket and walked back to the few parents still surveying the carnage. I thought he might be offering an apology - what I got was worse.  

 

     Speaking first, I tried to offer support. “Don’t worry about the kids, Ron. I doubt any of us considered the majors as a future career path.”

 

     Ron shrugged off my reassurance. Clearly, he had something else in mind, his next sentence confirming my worst suspicions.

 

     “The guy who was supposed to be my assistant backed out on me. How would you like to be a coach for the Sparrows?”

 

     “I never thought of myself as much of a sparrow, Ron. A pigeon, maybe, but never a sparrow.”

 

     Ron looked suddenly hopeful. Maybe a pigeon was the wrong point of comparison.

 

     “Think of the kids.”

 

     He did think I was a pigeon. “Ron, I am a horrible baseball player. Growing up, I was the worst kid on my team, and our right fielder was legally blind. I am the last person you would want teaching baseball to a bunch of children.”

 

     “So you stink. Look at these kids. If anything, you’d fit right in.”

He pointed to one Eddie Hilfinger, the tallest of our flock of sparrows, who was busy running two of his Hot Wheel cars over second base. Desperate now, I tried again.

 

     “What about gender equality?” I pointed to the collection of moms sitting a short distance away but very definitely listening in. “Mary,” I called to the one sitting closest, “How would you like to help Ron coach the Sparrows?”

 

     “Sure. I’d also love a root canal and a colonoscopy. In fact, I’m thinking of having them both done at the same time just to double my pleasure.”

 

     I took that as a no. The other mothers quickly turned their attention to their phones, their books, or even the field’s lone trashcan - still full from God-knows-what previous event.  These women weren’t suckers. I was the designated chump.

 

     I still had one card left to play. “I have to watch my son,” I said, pointing to Jack. He’s too young to play, but I still have to take him with me.”

 

     Ron again had a ready answer. “Just bring him on the field, and he can be our unofficial ball boy. If that gets to be too much, I’m sure one of these ladies will keep an eye on him.”

 

     He pointed again to the group of moms, all quickly volunteering to help. If it got them out of coaching duties, they probably would have considered adoption.

 

     I looked at Jack, hoping for some help from my male progeny. Flashing his brightest smile, he said, “Let’s do it, Daddy. It’s boring just sitting up here.”

 

     I would wait a decent period, then I would kill him. I would do it at home, away from all those prying eyes, but I would kill him, nonetheless.

 

     But for now, I was beaten. “I’ll do it. Just promise me you’ll always be there to take the lead.”

 

     Ron swore he would not let me down. With that assurance in hand, there was one more piece of business before Ron could introduce me to the team.

 

     “Here,” Ron said, leading me to the team bench, “is your official Sparrow’s assistant coach T-Shirt. Make sure you wear it to all the games.”

 

     I held up the shirt. It was huge, bringing back memories of the parachute from the late, great Gym of Awesome. I looked at Ron.

 

     “Sid Gaily, your predecessor, was a big guy. Just tuck it in your pants, and you won’t have any problems.”

 

     “I tuck this in my pants, and I’ll lose the ability to breathe.”

 

     Seeing no other solution, however, I obediently tucked in my new shirt. By the time I was through, Ron looked happy, and Jack seemed amused.

 

     “Daddy – you look fat.”

 

     “Don’t rub it in. Someday, you’ll be using this shirt to camp out in the backyard.”

 

     The preliminaries complete, Ron led Jack and me to the field to be introduced to the team.

Calling his players together, Ron said, “Guys, this is Coach Lister. Emily’s dad will be your new assistant coach. He’s going to help me during practice and the games, mostly to make sure you run the bases properly.”

 

     Sure - as soon as I learned how to myself. Still, Emily seemed proud, and that’s a look any Dad would pay to see.

 

     I handled batting practice for the rest of the session. My duties included lining the kids up, propping the ball on the Tee, and picking the Tee back up after the kids sent it crashing to the ground. I did not have to handle fielding, fortunate since that required some knowledge of how the game was actually played.

 

     Jack kept himself busy chasing after foul balls, including any that went into the stands. He was having fun, his new job far less boring than sitting on a bench pretending to root for his sister.

 

     Feeling almost triumphant, I took Jack and Emily home to fill in their mom on the success of Emily’s first practice.

 

     Knowing my feelings about baseball, Alma took one look at my outfit and figured I was putting her on.

 

     “Please tell me,” she said between a bite of hamburger, “that you didn’t steal that shirt.”

 

     “I didn’t steal the shirt. I really am the assistant coach.”

 

     “But you hate baseball. Besides, you keep stuffing that huge shirt in your pants, and people will think you’ve been shoplifting.”

 

     “I’ll be careful not to wear it into any stores. You wanted me to bond with the kids. What better way than helping to coach Emily’s team, particularly with Jack as the ball boy?” 

 

     “Can they at least give you a smaller shirt?  This one looks like you just lost a hundred pounds.”

 

     “I will use all my considerable leverage as assistant coach to push for another shirt.”

 

     “Big shirt or no, I am proud of you.”

 

     The Sparrows' first game was Saturday. With Alma in attendance, the team lost only thirty-two to twenty-seven. At least, I think that was the score. Between Ron, myself, and Alma in the stands, we came up with three tallies. When in doubt, I figured you should go with the statistics major - we used Alma’s estimate when we recorded the game in Emily’s journal.

 

     Two of the Sparrows’ twenty-seven runs came on a ten-foot ground ball single off the bat of my daughter. I was happy for Emily, and I was proud I managed not to screw up my two assigned duties - coaching first base and keeping track of the team’s assigned batting order.

 

     Based on my conversation with Ron, the duties of a first base coach were simple - unless the first or second baseman is holding the ball, I should always send the runner on to second.

 

     “Isn’t that a little dangerous?  Half the fair balls go to the pitcher or the third baseman. They throw to second, and the runner will be out by a mile.”

 

     “Have you seen these kids?  Most of them can’t even identify the second baseman, much less throw the ball in the direction of his glove.”

 

     “It still seems kind of unsporting – what about fair play and all that other stuff in the coach’s handbook?”

 

     “Again, have you watched these kids play?  Let them get as far as they can.”

 

     It was also my job to double as first base umpire, calling players out if the ball reached the bag before the runner’s foot. Not wanting to screw up, I worried I might miss a close, game-deciding call.

 

     As it happened, my concerns were for nothing. From what I heard and witnessed, there had never been an out at first base in the entire history of this or any other T-Ball league.

 

     It wasn’t that there weren’t opportunities. Batted balls rarely traveled beyond the player pretending to be the pitcher. A quick throw would have nailed most, if not all runners on both teams. Fortunately, or unfortunately, none of those throws were ever made.

 

     The issue was not enthusiasm. After any hit, fielders would flock to the ball as if finding a Slurpee in the middle of a dry Saharan desert. Their problem from that point was more directional, as if in finding the Slurpee, they suddenly forgot it needed to travel to their mouth.

 

     To avoid games lasting multiple decades, the T-Ball rule-makers had to devise another way of ending an inning. To accomplish that, they decided to let everyone bat, the inning ending when a team went through their entire batting order.  

 

     With these rules running through my head, I proceeded to spur our players onward to second base. I managed that job efficiently – I couldn’t play baseball, but I could point. One glance at my finger, and our players ran obediently to second.

 

     With a player on his way to second base, my next job was to make sure our runners arrived and remained there. For some of our more directionally challenged players, reaching second could be a real challenge, equivalent to a sea captain finding land in an ocean of fog.

 

     In our first game alone, two of our runners ran from first and continued past second base until they reached the outfield. One got there so quickly she reached the ball before the right fielder, handing it to the surprised young man before heeding the crowd’s plea and heading back to the proper base. I asked Ron how that one would be scored. He didn’t bother to reply.

 

     My second duty was even more straightforward – I got to hold the hitter’s batting helmet. That eliminated the possibility the helmet would slide over the runner’s eyes and further impede their chances of reaching the proper or, for that matter, any base. When Ron explained the necessity of this task, I thought I misheard.

 

     “Why do they need a batting helmet?” I asked Ron. “The ball’s sitting on a Tee.”

 

     “It’s in the rule book, but they only gave us two helmets. We’ll be in trouble if there’s more than one person on base.”

 

     I shook my head. “Not much danger of that, is there?”

 

     I shouldn’t have worried. As the designated helmet collector, I experienced my one and only cool moment on a baseball field. Even better, it was witnessed by Alma as well as my two children.

 

     It happened in the fifth inning. After our leadoff hitter doubled to shortstop, I obediently collected her batting helmet. Standing behind first base holding the helmet by the bill, it was then the unexpected occurred.

Joanie Fox, a tall spindly young girl with a ponytail well past her shoulders, sent a real line drive in the direction of first base. The ball hit the ground about two feet foul before flying in my direction.

 

     Acting on the same survival instinct honed in my childhood games, my first impulse was to freeze. Unfortunately, the ball was headed directly for my groin, and my usual deer-in-the-headlights fielding posture seemed less than optimal. I had a mental image of me doubled over as Alma, Emily, and Jack turned away in disgust. Emily would turn to her friends saying, “Father? No, that’s not my father. My real father wasn’t able to come today.”

 

     I had to do something. Remembering the batting helmet in my right hand, I moved my makeshift armor in front of what I desperately hoped was the path of the ball. Waiting for the inevitable collision, I felt a soft bump and heard the crowd cheer – had I really escaped injury?  I then glanced inside the helmet and found the wayward ball – sometimes, you just get lucky.

 

     Lucky or not, I could spot a marketing opportunity when I saw one. Raising the helmet with casual nonchalance – look at me, I do this every day – the crowd responded by cheering even more. Alma, Jack, and Emily yelled the loudest.

 

     After the game, I confessed to Alma I might make that catch once every twenty tries, and even that might be generous. Alma then admitted part of the reason for her cheers was relief a random baseball had not forestalled the possibility of future children. My wife understood and yet still loved me. As a husband, you can’t ask for much more than that.

 

     My career as an assistant coach lasted eight more games, all losses, though none with any major screw-ups. The losing didn’t bother me. Emily and Jack were having fun, and I was developing a decent relationship with Ron, our Sparrow leader and teacher of all things T-Ball. Unfortunately, that relationship turned sour before our tenth and final game.

 

     Ron’s phone call came just one day before the last game of our season. I figured it was a reminder about the snacks. Sadly, I was wrong.

 

     He got right to the point. “I need you to coach our last game.”

 

     “Let me correct you, Ron. You need me to bring the snacks. That and masquerading as a first base coach are pretty much the limits of my baseball expertise.”

 

     “Alan, I need you to coach. My family and I are heading to Disneyland for vacation. It’s just one game.  You don’t want to disappoint the kids, do you?”

 

     “When I took this job, you swore you would take the lead. Taking the lead means being the coach.”

 

     “I swore I would never let you down – that’s very non-specific. I never said anything about always being coach.”

 

     “I’m guessing you’re a lawyer, aren’t you, Ron?”

 

     “Actually, I’m an accountant - an accountant whose family will kill him if he doesn’t join them on the plane tomorrow.”

 

     “I know nothing about baseball. This disaster will be on your conscience.”

 

     “Alan, this is T-Ball. Other than the fact they both use bats, baseball and T-Ball have nothing whatsoever in common. We’ve lost all our games so far. What are you going to do – lose by a bigger margin?  I’ll drop off the equipment tomorrow morning on my way to the airport.” 

 

     The next sound I heard was a click - Ron hung up before I could reply. Initially panicked, I felt suddenly calm. I could talk with Ron when he dropped off the equipment. I would wait in my driveway and confront Ron then. Surely, he would be reasonable.

     

     I set my alarm for six that morning. Around two a.m., Alma woke me, having heard a clatter in our front yard. Without even looking out the window, I realized I had underestimated Ron once more. Who knew accountants were so cunning?  Just to be sure, I put on pants and a shirt and went outside to investigate.

 

     My neighbor Mike also heard the noise and managed to beat me outside. Armed with a flashlight, he surveyed the pile of bats, balls, and plastic bases lying on my front grass.

Mike looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m supposed to be coaching Emily’s T-Ball team tomorrow morning.”

 

     “That’s a relief. I was beginning to think you ticked off some rogue baseball gang. I figured this was their version of a drive-by.”

 

     “The bats are way too small. You’d need real wooden bats for a baseball gang.”

 

     Looking down at the equipment strewn on my lawn, Mike said, “Those plastic bases could do some real damage, though, sort of a heavier version of a throwing star.”

 

     “In all seriousness, Mike, thanks for looking out for us. I’m really sorry for the noise. I hope it didn’t wake Bob.”

 

     “Bob could sleep through a nuclear holocaust, and I was up reading through some patient notes. You need any help moving this stuff to your backyard?”

 

     “Nah – I’ve got it.”

 

     Mike returned to his house while I moved the bats, balls, and bases to the back of our minivan. Despite my best efforts, I was now lead Sparrow. I wonder if there was another word for that – chump and dupe both came to mind.

 

     I went back inside my house and tried to go back to sleep, wondering if there was a record for the worst T-Ball score in history. Maybe we wouldn’t score at all, or maybe we would make the first recorded out in T-Ball history. The possibilities were endless, but somehow I pushed them out of my mind in time to grab a few hours of much-needed rest. At least I no longer had to get up at six a.m.

 

     That morning, I told the kids I would be Emily’s coach for this last game. To my surprise, Emily embraced the idea.

 

     “Don’t worry, Dad; we’ll help you through it.”

 

     Alma and Jack agreed, Jack even volunteering to coach first base. I looked at Alma, “Actually, I was hoping your Mom could do that.”

 

     Alma shook her head. “Are you joking?  I know even less about baseball than you do.”

 

     “One – that’s not possible. Two – you don’t need to know anything about baseball. Think of yourself as a crossing guard. You just tell the kids when to go on to second base. Three, remember who got me into this in the first place.”

 

     Reluctantly, Alma agreed. Now drunk with power, I also told Jack he could coach third. “Just stay out of the way and point to home.” Jack was enthusiastic, Alma less so. This was now a Lister family affair.

 

     I announced the coaching change to the entire team a half-hour before game time. The kids were wary but accepting. It probably helped we had lost all our games to this point. As Ron pointed out, what could get worse?

 

     It turned out a few things could. To start with, Jack’s career as third base coach almost ended in the first inning. After a groundball single, Theresa Penny came bearing down on Jack after her base hit was booted toward the outfield.

 

     Jack was standing too close to the base, and Theresa, excited by her hit, never seemed to notice. I yelled at Theresa, warning her of the impending collision. I then called Jack, hoping he would move.

 

     Theresa missed my warning. Fortunately, Jack did not, though he did get spun around as Theresa’s elbow landed on his right shoulder. My wife/first base coach immediately ran to check on our son, glaring at me as she did so. This game was not starting off well.

 

     Luckily things settled down after that. Entering the final inning, we were behind only thirty-four to twenty-nine, a low-scoring game by T-Ball standards. Victory was still possible though we would need a significant rally.

 

     Emily led off with a T-Ball double, a ten-foot grounder to the third baseman, who held onto the ball as if it was some rare mineral he discovered on a nature hike. The young man eventually threw the ball towards home, perhaps thinking he could preemptively throw out our next hitter as he was striding towards the plate. At Jack’s urging, Emily ran to third on the throw, the first time in her life she had taken her brother’s advice under any circumstance. Perhaps Alma was right – maybe this game did promote family bonding. Two more doubles and a home run later (our first hit to the outfield), we were behind by only one run with five more hitters due up.

 

     The next two batters doubled, tying the score. I was excited and jumping up and down behind the Sparrows’ bench. The opposing coach looked at me like you would some insane person preaching on a downtown sidewalk. I didn’t care. I wanted this.      

 

     We had two more batters due up. The first singled, a ground ball to the fielder standing near the pitcher’s mound. The faux pitcher, a T-Ball savant, realized a quick throw to first would keep the hitter from advancing any further. One batter left, I called Jack over from his position behind third base.

 

     “Jack – whatever Janice hits, I don’t care if it’s only three feet in front of the plate, just send the runner.”

 

     Possessing that innate male gene conflating any minor sporting contest into a major life-changing event, Jack nodded his head grimly – we were ready.

 

     Standing by the Sparrows bench, I belatedly realized my instructions might result in a collision at home plate. I waved at Jack, who had no idea what my hand gestures were meant to signify. Fortunately for the health of both catcher and runner, Janice Loper somehow hit the ball well into the outfield, landing well between the left and right fielders. We had won our final game, and I hadn’t managed to kill any players in doing so – a definite win-win by all accounts.

 

      Celebrating at home plate, I high-fived Janice, Emily, and every other player on our team, while wondering if Ron was having as much fun at Disney as I was right then. After the celebrations subsided, I took our entire group to Dairy Queen, eschewing the healthy snacks we had brought along that morning.

 

     Suddenly, it seemed the Baseball Gods, fickle my entire life, had thrown a smile my way.

 

     Apparently, it was more like laughter. Sitting in the Dairy Queen using her sleeve to wipe chocolate ice cream from her mouth, Emily asked if I would coach the team next year. Still giddy from our moment of triumph, I, for some reason, said yes.

 

     Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the majors would come calling after all.