Little League Odyssey
Justin Panson
It is late February and even out here in California the days are gray and rainy. In this weather it’s hard to think about baseball, but we are about to begin another Little League season, my 8th and final year coaching—my son will move up to a higher level of ball next year, if he wants to, and I will step aside in deference to those more qualified than myself to mold young baseball talent. This year’s teams have been drafted, the emails have been sent to expectant parents, and next week, weather permitting, out on a patch of grass we will enact the first ritual in a ritual-obsessed sport. A rag tag group of kids will huddle together to meet their new coaches and hear the first installment of wit and wisdom from paunchy, middle aged field generals. This scene will repeat itself across the land, from the lowest barrios to the most tony suburbs. There’s not much that can be said about the game that hasn’t been said already, all the metaphors, the philosophy, the rich and poignant vein of things literary, historic and instructive. But as this final season for Evan and me approaches, I have been thinking about the journey he and I have taken together. I am remembering those first days in T-ball, that crude approximation of baseball, at once frenetic and grindingly slow—long innings and wayward throws. The kids waddled around in uniforms that seemed too big, doted on by moms and grandparents. They struggled with the intricate fine motor skills. They tried to follow rapid-fire instructions shouted earnestly from the bleachers. This was the first time most of these kids had taken any kind of stage to perform in life. The parental love and concern was palpable, a hold-your-breath sort of tension as if worlds hung in the balance. In an era of helicopter parents, baseball proves to be a case study in modern indulgence. Perfection-seeking moms and dads hover over their precious offspring ready to help solve problems and ensure that ‘everybody is a winner.’ Only later will they come to understand just how much less egalitarian the game is, how it metes out the cruelest injustices. But who can really fault the protective instinct hard wired in parents that traces all the way back down through biology? Only later will they come to understand just how much less egalitarian the game is, how it metes out the cruelest injustices. |
In the early years, the good coaches broke down skills into tiny chunks of information and simple acts of repetition. They kept it fun and light but managed to maintain some bit of orderliness without seeming tyrannical. On teams less fortunate, scenes of bloody mutiny played themselves out. My brother-in-law used to call it the ‘goat rodeo.’ I have seen that defeated look in the eyes of a coach when he has lost command and knows he will never get it back. As time went along, it turned out my kid is the athlete I never was. Where I was a skinny, timid kid, he is a natural competitor, with an elegance to his movement and a decisiveness that cannot be taught. This is a parent’s dream, but it also brings into sharp focus the dilemma that all coaches face. With Evan and a few of his pals on the team, we had many years where we were beating all comers and enjoying the primal pleasure. The dilemma, a constant throughout the ranks of youth sport, is how to balance competitiveness with an inclusive, expansive approach. How to celebrate the pure joy of the game in a way that is not zero-sum? How to make sure the lowly right fielder, not blessed with the gift of athletic grace, is not abandoned in an all-out quest for victory? All coaches walk this tightrope. A sway or misstep too far to one side or the other can be fatal. Each parent arrives with a different set of values and motivations, running the gamut from extremely competitive to goofing around. Parents can be a hyper-critical, unforgiving mob requiring subtle diplomacy. And the real irony of this dilemma is that some of the most stirring moments have occurred at the lower end of the talent pool: the kid who has been struggling through game after game, just trying to put aluminum on the ball. And then by perseverance or dumb luck, he knocks a clean base hit. The cheer goes up stronger than usual. The kid is smiling broadly. This is a transcendent moment, and everyone at the field instantly grasps the significance. |
And then by perseverance or dumb luck, he knocks a clean base hit. The cheer goes up stronger than usual. The kid is smiling broadly. This is a transcendent moment, and everyone at the field instantly grasps the significance. 
We went into battle together, my son and I. We traveled to strange neighborhoods, looked across the diamond at the other team warming up, wondering if we were good enough. Sometimes we heard taunts from the opposing bleachers. I remember those instances when I had to call time, and make that walk out onto the field, stepping over the foul line, out to the mound to settle him down, when I could tell he was ready to cry. The helplessness of a father in those moments. My bits of advice then were nothing more than a trick of distraction, a placebo of old saws and positive spin. He was out there well beyond the point where I could really help him. Whoever said there’s no crying in baseball has never been a ten-year-old facing a no-outs bases loaded situation with the tying run aboard. That is one of the genius parts of the sport, that it brings you to these decisive moments, the slow moving drama and clockless torture. There were unforgettably great games too—the comeback in an all-star elimination game last year. This cocky team from a gated community with the smug first base coach who didn’t get out of the way when our first basemen was trying to catch a foul pop-up. They got up 6 on us and put in a third tier pitcher. They were looking past us, saving their good pitchers for the next game. We told the kids it was a show of disrespect and that we were a good team. It wasn’t a motivational gimmick— we believed this. It is part of the ancient code of baseball, an elaborate system of unwritten rules involving slights and affronts to sportsmanship and pride. We clawed back and the tide turned in an unlikely sequence of clutch hits and errors. By the time they realized their fatal mistake, we were poised to win the game. It was a beautiful two-out walk-off followed by a dog pile near first base, just like the boys had seen it on TV. That day, every one of our kids knew what it meant to be a part of a ball team. |
He may lose interest in the game. Girls and beer will come into the picture, and travel and music and the whole rest of adolescent life, the wide open set of possibilities of growing up. 
Coaching your own son is difficult. Like many dads and sons, we have verged into a dysfunctional zone at times, where a parent is a less effective instructor—too close, too much father/son stuff getting in the way. The kid wants to rebel a little, needs to establish himself apart from his dad. I have understood all this, but it did not make it easier. In the end, it may be some kind of microcosm, but it is only Little League. And no matter what happens in his life and in mine, we have these baseball times together. He may lose interest in the game. Girls and beer will come into the picture, and travel and music and the whole rest of adolescent life, the wide open set of possibilities of growing up. In the future, he may be overmatched on teams with kids toting around pricey equipment, visions of stardom dangling before them. But like they said in the movie Moneyball, eventually everyone will be told they can no longer play the child’s game. Whether it is at age 16 or 20 or 40, everyone faces this day of reckoning. But there were a few precious years when he could hardly wait to have a catch. We played after work out on the street, interrupted often by rush hour cars cutting down our block. Just the simple rhythm of catch. The casual, relaxing ritual of step and throw that dads and sons have enacted down through the ages. I am thankful to the baseball gods, those misunderstood deities, that opening day is again approaching, and that my twelve-year-old son and I have another season together. Justin Panson Sacramento, CA, February 2012 © Copyright Justin Panson. All rights reserved. |
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