There’s no crying in baseball

When I played Little League Baseball, I was small for my age, but I was quick and fearless out in the field. I mainly played second base and would often get to balls that I shouldn’t have been able to catch. One game in the middle of our season, we were winning and needed just one more out to end the game, but we faced a tall task — the other team had the bases loaded. On top of everything, the sky was getting dark. It seemed to foreshadow what was about to happen.

The other team had already scored twice in the inning, they needed just one more run to tie the game and two runs to win. The pitcher threw the ball and the batter hit it up the middle of the field to my right, if it got through it would easily score two runners.

I dived and somehow caught it, coming up with a bunch of dirt in my mouth, and rolled the ball to the shortstop who stepped on second base and got the out. We won the game.

The thrill of victory sort of

We ran to our dugout excited and cheering each other. Our coach, the father of one of my older teammates, was probably more excited than anyone. He told us that it was a big win and made a big deal about my game-saving catch. He praised my catch and said that he was going to give me a star on my hat just like the way Pittsburgh Pirates first baseman Willie Stargell was giving teammates embroidered “Stargell stars” for their hats after a nice play or a good game.

I felt like a pro player. I felt like I had done something of worth. When my mom came to pick me up, I couldn’t wait to tell her about what I had done. I was so excited.

My mood changed later that night. My mom came to my room, telling me that I had a phone call from my coach. I never got calls. He praised me again, but paused a long time and then said that he had changed his mind. I remember being confused by what he was trying to say, but the gist of his message was that would get one like the rest of the team, but not one for my individual effort or play.

It felt like a letdown. The way he passed along the news I felt like I had done something wrong. The movie A League of Their Own and the phrase “There’s no crying in baseball” wouldn’t come along for another decade or two, but it kind of summed up my crazy situation. I loved playing baseball, it was all I ever wanted to do, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I needed to cry it out.

The agony of winning

I never figured out what had happened. I don’t know if my coach had second thoughts. I don’t know if he didn’t have enough stars to hand out or if a parent complained that their kid wasn’t recognized. For all I know, his own kid, who was on the team, could’ve complained. I always guessed that it had something to do with the parents, because the coach seemed to spend more time the rest of the year with the parents than the kids on the field. I have no idea, but I remember feeling stung. I felt like I had been given something and had it taken away.

I lost faith in the coach.

A friend was talking recently about parental politics in kid’s sports and that moment came back into my mind. I’m told that parents are worse today. I can’t speak to that, but I can definitely speak from experience on how coaches affect kids both positively and negatively.

Time marches on

We all experience life in different ways. Some moments barely register a blip on the radar, others stick around and stay with us. My experience with the coach left a bad impression on me, but the funny thing is that I remember something another authority figure said to me later that season that stuck with me too, but this time left a positive impression.

I was still reeling a bit a few weeks later from the recognition given and then taken away when our season was coming to an end. We were playing our final game of the year. I had to wait for another game to end, so I went to the concession stand with the money I had earned doing chores around the house to buy a hot dog and some gum. When I went to pay for it, though, the old guy who volunteered and often worked as an umpire at our games, put his money up on the counter.

“I’ll pay for that, get him a soda too,” he told the volunteer running the stand. I didn’t know what to say. I barely knew him. I knew that his son was a star athlete in our little community and was a few years older than my oldest brother. For a shy kid like me, this was huge. “That’s for being a good sport.”

Resilient to the end

When I got home, my mom told me that the ump saw her and told her the same thing, that I stood out throughout the year for the way I helped cheer up teammates when they were down and when the game was over, I was always the first to line up to shake hands with the other team.

My mom hugged me and told me that I might not have earned a team star for my winning catch, but I gave her the best Mother’s Day present I could give her by being a good sport. I learned that the ball of life has a funny way of bouncing sometimes — it’s not always going to be fair — but you need to roll with the punches, make the best of things, and see where it lands.