This is Why You Coach

I wish I had done this years ago. Every team is special in its own way. You always remember the names. You even remember the faces, although they are perpetually 9 years old. You remember the kids, but some of the reasons why and the little stories and details fade. This year I put them down. I try to think who my favorite player was this past season, but it was a 12 way tie. 

Ally wants to do everything perfect, all the time. But it doesn't work that way. A few bad pitches in a row and Ally got down on herself, so it would be my duty to go out to the mound to talk to her and get her to relax. Maybe hold hands in a calming circle and do some deep breathing and drop some Oms. It doesn’t work that way either.

There is a scene in the movie “A League of Their Own” where Geena Davis responds to her angry pitcher/sister who accused her of not helping her through tough innings. Davis asked, “Who was it that threw a rosin bag at me and told me to get my fat butt back behind the plate? I forget?”  I thought about that line every time I went to talk to Ally.

But for a kid who spent the first few weeks of practices telling me all the things she couldn’t do or didn’t do last year, Ally became a very dependable and important part of our team. Because when she was on, she was on. Then she’d go from worried face to happy face. Happy face Ally pitched very well. Maybe sometimes on the mound her exuberance might have been close to the wrong side of excessive celebration, but I let that go and rode the wave as long as I could, because I never knew when I’d be a couple pitches away from dodging a rosin bag.

Most of our games started at 6pm on weeknights. I’d asked the players to be there half an hour early. 5:30 would give us time to get warmed up and ready to play. I move at my own pace. I have a job. I have three kids who could never be called slaves to the clock.  They certainly move at their own pace, so the concept of times and schedules escape them entirely. So, occasionally, particularly with away games, I’d be a minute or two late. On my team was the only 11 year old who keeps track of time. 

Thank god for Courtnee. I never actually saw her with a watch or even with a phone that might give her an indication of what the time was. But she knew. And Courtnee would take it upon herself to let me know what time it was. “Coach, you’re three minutes late.”  “Coach, it’s after 5:30. Where have you been?” Her reminders were always delivered with a little bit of a smirk to be playful, but also with her arms crossed as if to say, ‘don’t let it happen again’.

Molly was by far the youngest on the team, playing a few years out of her age group. She was by far the smallest player on the team.  But Molly was the scrappiest. Molly was the most likely to dive in first. Molly was usually the dirtiest.  Molly asked if she could work on head first slides. Despite her tough exterior, she was always ready to pull out the cutsie boo-boo face in an attempt to get her way. Still, my lasting image of Molly is her hip to one side and her fist rested upon it. Her brow is furrowed and lips pursed, Molly was always ready for a throw down.

Frannie is a true all-star in that she plays like one and acts like one.  For those of you familiar with The Sandlot, Frannie was our Benny Rodriguez. She could play anywhere and do it well. Frannie could hit and would start every game saying, “I’m going to hit a home run.”  And she had the goods and the guts to make it happen. Everything Frannie does is big. Big hair, big smile, big laugh. Big hits. One game Frannie grounded to the first baseman. As the fielder when to tag Frannie, she thought she could slide past.  In the collision Frannie twisted her ankle. She went down hard and she really appeared to be in pain. Frannie refused to be carried or helped off the field. I awkwardly held her arm as she hopped from 1^st base to our dugout on the 3^rd base side. The next inning Frannie sat out and worked on her ankle. She hobbled on it. Limped on it. Walked a bit. When she showed me she could at least jog, I let her back in when her turn came to bat. Bases were loaded and she delivered the biggest hit of the game. Frannie crushed a waist high pitch to left center field and sprinted all the way to 3^rd base. And her ankle felt fine.

Could there be a more literal ballplayer than Reilly? I think not. In one game Reilly tried to talk her way out of a base because she wasn’t actually hit by a pitch. It only hit her shirt. She was even literal in her batting. She would either swing, or not swing. If she didn’t swing, she didn’t move, no matter how close the ball was to hitting her. This quality was great for a coach because that meant that Reilly would do what we asked her to do. She was on 2^nd with no runner at 1^st. I gave my usual spiel from the coach’s box, “There is no force, so if a ball is hit to 3^rd base or shortstop, don’t go until they throw.” Most runners get excited and take off, getting themselves tagged out. Reilly held and was safe on 2^nd, scoring on a later play. Other times, the literal thing can get me.

One batting technique I always have to work on is where the batters keep their hands. They tend to hold the bat close to their chest. The problem is that when the pitch comes, they pull their hands back as if winding up, then bring the swing forward. Usually, this makes the swing late. Keeping it simple I have always said, “Hold the bat back as far as you can”. Over ten years of coaching and I have said this literally thousands of times and I never doubted the efficiency of the words used to convey my meaning. Then along came Reilly. Her body at bat was so twisted that  her shoulders almost faced the backstop. Finally, I asked her why do you do that? “Because you told me to hold the bat back as far as I could.”  Yes, I did. So, my decade old phrase needed to be modified with what I call, the Reilly Addendum. “With your shoulders parallel to the plate, hold the bat back as far as you can.”  

Maddie. My little Angel Fish. I suppose having one’s father as the coach can be difficult. A bit more is expected of you. Not to mention the coach’s comfort level in speaking a bit more sternly than with kids to whom he isn’t related. And having your daughter as a player isn’t much easier. She is a bit more willing to rebut any criticisms or helpful baseball hints. Maddie has no problem calling attention to herself. This girl is always comfortable on center stage.  I can see her now, strutting to the plate in her red helmet adorned with a jeweled tiara. She stops at the batter’s box to bend and grab a handful of dirt and rub it between her hands, a la Jackie Robinson. Holding her left hand out she tells the pitcher to hold on and wait until she’s ready as she pounds the plate and takes a vicious practice swing. And on the field, and running the bases she is more animated than anyone I have ever seen. The dose of flair and fun that Maddie brought to the table was huge part of the personality of this team.

Sydney  had a rough time with team sports. Her previous teams were not particularly successful. Our team certainly wasn’t winning. She didn’t like it. After a rough loss in Cato, Sydney chose to turn herself around. There was an increase in focus. I think Sydney became more daring. She started swinging more often. She started swinging harder. Sydney started hitting and Sydney became more confident.  And that carried on right to the end of the season. Throughout the season, our girls were not sprinters and we didn’t go home on many passed balls. Our last playoff game was against the #2 seeded team. They  were good and had a solid, athletic catcher. In that game, Sydney took off for home twice. The girl was making it happen.

I always knew Emme was there. For nearly every practice and every game, that girl was the first one in the dugout. And questions? Emme always had questions. Not stupid questions. Everything she asked was baseball/softball appropriate questions. Often they were thinky questions that required longer explanations. Things like, “Who covers 2^nd when a runner steals?”  “What if the 1^st baseman leaves the base to get a ball?” Good questions, indeed. But if she was in front of me, she was asking something.  And timing didn’t really matter. In one game the girls were headed back onto the field and I wanted to get the team fired up with a little refresher on strategy for the inning and a pep talk. “Coach.” “Yeah, Emme?” “When we’re on 2^nd and there is no runner on 1^st, why do you tell us not to run if the ball is hit to the shortstop?”  True story. I guess inquiring minds want to know.

Our elementary school has a basketball camp to get 1^st &  2^nd graders interested in the sport. I was working one of the stations and it was there that I first met Breanna. That girl made me work. Breanna was fun, impish, & strong. She’d drive you nuts, but Breanna’s Dorothy Hamill haircut, big smile & constant laughter pulled you right in. Breanna had this bat that was too heavy for most of our girls. It was too heavy for Breanna two years ago when she was first on my team.  It was a big Captain Caveman club of a bat that even she would have trouble getting it around quickly enough. But when she made contact, you knew it.   

What I liked about Morgan is that she reminded me of me as a player. Nothing made Morgan too exited or too down. Morgan did everything you'd ask and would take advice in such a matter of fact way that she seemed like some baseball old timer sitting on the dugout bench tipping her cap back and simply saying, "Yep."
This part of Morgan's personality could work both ways. Sure, I never had to talk her down, but it also meant that she moved at her own pace and did things her way. Even though this was her first year at this level, Morgan was a very dependable catcher. But at times, Morgan would play catcher as if she was a goalie for the Buffalo Sabers, using her shin guards for blocking and deflection of low pitches. Usually, it didn't matter. She had things in hand. But every once in a while a ball would bounce off her shin guard and squib away, letting runners advance. I'd have to call to her, "Morgan, use your glove more than your shin guards." She'd look back and in a languorous way that would make any slow talkin' West Virginian jealous, Morgan would say, "Yeah, ok."

Leah was one of several on the team that was a rookie to softball. And though Leah came a long way over the course of the season I can't claim much credit. Why would a coach have to put pressure on a player that puts so much pressure on herself? Leah worked very hard and despite no previous experience she became a reliable and effective pitcher.  But, like Ally, if Leah threw a few bad balls in a row, I'd have to visit the mound to calm her down. "Leah. You're making the face. Just relax and throw and you'll be fine." And then she was fine.

When I get a chance to draft Lauren, I do. This is the 3rd year I've had Lauren on my team because she is a player. Lauren can be as fun and as silly as any 10 year old girl, but when the game

started, she was all business. Lauren was aware of what was going on and what she needed to do. There was no doubt that Lauren was trying her best. Her long limbs made Lauren a fun kid to watch. She had this huge sweeping swing that made it look like forever for the bat to cross the plate. More often than not, though, she was ahead of  the pitch. And it wasn't just her arms. With her socks pulled high, Lauren looked like a deer running the bases. I swear that at full stride, the girl could go from 1st to 3rd base in six steps.

Dusty Weed Whacker Goes for a Ride

I don’t really make yard work a priority. I just don’t. It gets 

done when it gets done. Something always comes up that 

takes precedence. Baseball games, work, sleep, laundry, 

house cleaning. You name it. Weather can throw a wrench in 

the works. You can’t cut if there is too much rain. You can’t 

cut if the long grass isn't dry enough. And don’t get me 

started on leaves. Whatever the issue, winter or nature will 

just take care of it eventually.

My neighbor on the other hand is a lawn person. Her yard 

always looks good. Not that there is anything wrong with 

that. There are all sorts of people in the world with all sorts 

of lifestyles. No one is any better than the other. You got

 Baptists and Catholics, liberals and conservatives, and even 

Coke people and Pepsi people. She’s a lawn person.  Her 

lawn is a wide open, plush, green landscape. Beautiful.

Today, work gloves we on the hands on this side of the fence.


 Oh, we were out in force.


Four people mowing, weed pulling, branch lopping, and 

weed whacking our way through the jungle that was our 

yard. We looked Yard Crashers on energy drinks and coffee.

Sadly, our neighbor is moving soon. I don’t know if she saw

us, but I think she would be proud. She keeps a groomed 

yard, but I don’t think she thinks less of ours. She is too nice 

to say anything like that. She might say, "Just so you know, I saw a mountain lion hiding in the tall grass near the fence." She probably doesn't even care. 

Maybe she thinks that her yard looks better next to ours.

 

But part of me thinks she saw us out there working and 

thought,


 “Ten years as neighbors and they finally put that damn week

 whacker to use.”