Articles by
Steve Dennie

Travel Articles

The Boys of Summer and Their Crazed Parents

Steve Dennie

It's spring, that time of year when thousands of innocent youngsters don baggy pants and way-too-big caps and take to the Little League diamond, dreaming of glory and trying to hear themselves think above the hysterical yelling of crazed parents.

Ah, the memories. I played three years of Little League baseball, and here is what I learned.

1. If the pitcher hurls the ball in the general direction of the backstop, and you, the hapless batter, realize that this hard object probably won't be a strike, probably won't even cross the plate, probably will, in fact, hit you in the chin or thereabouts unless you move very quickly, your best option is to duck.

When I found myself in this very situation, I, not yet having had the benefit of a college education, stupidly turned my back to the ball and flung myself toward the backstop, still right in the ball's path and not gaining any distance on it. The ball smacked me in the middle of the back. Whap! This caused me to make a really good play, in that the umpire awarded me first base.

2. If you ground out to the shortstop, whose throw reaches the first-baseman while you're still stumbling down the baseline, it's socially acceptable, even praiseworthy, to run full-speed into the first-baseman in the hope that he will drop the ball.

I, a skinny runt, broadsided one such hapless fellow, something I would never have done to somebody I knew and who might just exact revenge. As I trotted toward the dugout, I noticed my teammates cheering wildly. Seems the dazed guy dropped the ball and, as with my Let-the-Ball-Smack-You-in-the-Back trick, I was awarded first base.

3. A baseball player needs to act cool, and there are several ways to do this. One is to get your uniform real dirty. This is why you need to slide into a base at least once a game, no matter where the ball is.

Another cool-inducing technique is to swing two weighted bats while in the on-deck circle, and then drop to one knee and watch the batter. The pros do this on TV, so it must be cool.

Yet another popular method concerns the way you throw the ball around when warming up. This is hard to explain, but anyone who plays church league softball knows what I'm talking about. It involves a random combination of looking at the ball contemplatively as it lies in your glove, doing a slow pitcher-like windup, throwing the ball with a rubbery slow-motionish delivery, catching the ball by lifting your glove and slightly dipping your head at the same time, and blowing bubbles. Extra points for catching the ball behind your back.

4. Those whose parents work with the Little League association play the most innings.

In Paxtonia Little League, we had three divisions. In the Pony League, four teams of rookies and rejects played among themselves. The good players moved up to the B Team, and the reallygood players, or those whose parents were most involved in Little League, played on the elite A Team. The A and B teams played their counterparts in other area leagues.

I played one year in each division. Pony League was the most fun, by far. My team, the Yankees, took first place that year. I was practically a superstar. I played every game, got many hits, and scored a lot of runs. Not only that, but I quickly mastered Coolness.

Then it was on to the A and B teams, where I sat the bench game after game. It's not that I stunk--I was as good as most of the other players. My problem was an underprivileged home life. You see, my parents didn't work with Little League.

By some quirky coincidence, the fathers of a number of my B teammates helped coach the B team, and it just so happened that those sons played every minute of every game. What's even stranger, when we all moved to the A team the next year, so did those father-coaches.

Other kids' parents ran the snack bar, did announcing and scorekeeping, coached in the Pony Leagues, or otherwise hung around the field like thirtysomething groupies. And those kids never sat the bench, either. Not like me, Pony League Superstar turned scrub.

The political dimensions of Little League sunk in during one game in particular. Mr. Brumbaugh, the head coach, actually put me in the game that night, and I did good. The first time at bat, I almost put the ball over the fence. Everyone said it would have gone over if the center fielder hadn't snagged it at the rail. Then I made a nice running catch in the field (right field, of course, the only position I could play since my parents weren't involved in Little League).

The next time at bat, in the third inning, I hit the fence, got a triple, and ended up scoring. As I returned to the dugout, my teammates cheered me.

"Way to go, Steve!"

"Great hit!"

It felt wonderful.

But evidently, I was playing too good. I was exceeding my designated spot in the Little League Scheme of Things. When the inning ended and I picked up my glove to return to right field, Mr. Brumbaugh told me he had put in a substitute. I was done for the day.

In-crowd sons--Jeff, Scott, Bob, Dean, Brad--were making fielding errors and striking out, and theystayed in the game. But not me. I was a sixth-grader who desperately wanted to prove himself, who knew he was good even if Mr. Brumbaugh didn't, and who was having the game of his life.

And Mr. Brumbaugh said, "Go warm the bench."

I'll never forget that game. I still resent it. Maybe you can tell.

I could blame Mom and Dad for my misfortunes. But the thing is, I never cared that they weren't involved with Little League. Not a bit. They came to most of my home games and enthusiastically supported me. But I can't remember thinking even for a second, "I wish Dad would help with Little League." That meant nothing to me.