Not being able to watch our kids play sports was one of the heartbreaks of 2020. Our athletes were not allowed to compete and parents lost the privilege of seeing their kids flourish in their chosen sport. In California, the “Let Them Play” movement was started to get players back on the field, but also to get fans back in the stands. Carting a minivan full of soccer players was a mainstay of the suburban weekend and last year those missing car rides, however mundane, meant there were no games to watch. Instead of a proud video of Ava scoring a goal, her mom could only post a photo of her daughter in front of her computer attending a Zoom meeting with her 8U travel team. But Ava’s team is back in 2021 along with the orange slices, the EZ ups, and sunscreening the fair-skinned midfielders. And reunited with the opportunity to watch our kids play, you would think that we would be collectively grateful to have these moments back in our lives. However, instead of being filled with gratitude, it seems the recreational sports world has lost its damn mind.
In Eastern Kentucky, a fight broke out between coaches and parents after a disputed call in a t-ball game. After winning a CIF basketball championship game, the winning side threw tortillas in the direction of the losing team, which was predominantly Latino, resulting in the head coach being fired. Closer to home, in our local Little League, players witnessed an unnecessary amount of conflict and tantrums, primarily on the part of the parents.
One of my all-time favorite Little League people is Alan Weber. (Name changed to protect the innocent.) Since our children are different ages, we’ve never had the opportunity to coach together or have our sons play on the same team. We only met because we both volunteered to serve on our league’s board of directors. Since that time, I’ve picked his brain on everything from draft strategy, practice ideas, 1st & 3rd defense, and best IPAs in the area. Since Alan’s oldest son is a couple years ahead of Ryan, his experience was always a sneak preview of what was coming in the next higher division. And while I’ve enjoyed every conversation we’ve had at Grand Slam Pizza over beers, the real pleasure is watching Alan coach. His energy and enthusiasm for the game is absolutely infectious. Part Tommy Lasorda, part P.T. Barnum, he instructs with knowledge and cheers with incredible passion. As soon as he steps between the lines, Alan strikes the perfect amount of urgency and empathy. He wants his infielders to practice playing fast, but he also knows which one is being bullied at school. When an all-star team was without a manager, he volunteered to lead it even though it wasn’t an age group his sons played in. If that doesn’t epitomize teamwork, I don’t know what does.
It was a difficult season for Alan. Without a kid in the league, he continued to volunteer and loved every minute of being around practices and games. He volunteered for extra board shifts so he could hang out behind home plate and talk more baseball. Then, toward the end of the season, he had to deal with a particularly challenging situation. I’m going to be deliberately vague, but our league was in a no-win situation and any decision was going to be unpopular. The feedback came in swift and merciless; seemingly everyone let Alan know how displeased they were with the league’s decision. He hadn’t started a t-ball fight in Kentucky or thrown a single tortilla, but he took the brunt of the criticism. Like absorbing the blow of a fastball to his ribs, Alan, as he always did, took one for the team.
It absolutely crushed him. The sport he loved betrayed him and ripped out his heart. I called and texted him multiple times that weekend, but he didn’t want to hear from any baseball people. When he finally did respond, he typed back “Not ghosting you” and then a few texts later “I might be done with the Board.” Alan ran away and hid in the woods. OK, so he actually did have a family camping trip planned and I’m sure there was no better time to get away. I was sad to think about Little League without Alan. But beyond my personal feelings, there’s something very wrong with the world when avoidable conflict causes youth sports to lose the best people. Alan is everything right about Little League and if he’s not around the fields, any numbers on the center field scoreboard don’t matter. We all lose.
Once Alan was home from camping, I started to get the usual texts from my baseball friend. All-star season had just started and we talked about the brackets and our league’s chances of advancing beyond the district round. After some back-and-forth, I asked, “Are you ready to make up with Little League?” and waited for a response. When the three blinking dots transformed into “Think so.” I was happier than a team of 8 year-olds eating pizza after a game. I think next season Alan will be back in the third base coaching box encouraging his 12th hitter, who has very little chance of making any contact. But should he manage to hit a change-up foul, Alan will make him think he just hit a walk-off home run to win the World Series.
Before each Little League game, both teams recite the Little League pledge which embodies the values and ideals of Little League International. There is also a Little Little Parent and Volunteer Pledge which stresses positive support and respecting the coaches and umpires. I recently searched littleleague.org for the text of the Parent Pledge and somewhat fittingly it’s not findable using the site’s search tool. Perhaps youth sports have become so jaded those principles just can’t be found on the web or the sidelines. I decided to write a new pledge; it’s actually more like a collection of ideologies.. So with apologies to Ron Shelton, the writer/director of Bull Durham, here is my Little League Crash Davis speech:
I believe in the kids, the blue book, pitch counting, tucking in your jersey, curved brims, tater tots,..that taking second after a walk in AAA is bush league but efficient. I believe there should be no exceptions to getting an extra pitch from the pitching machine for one out of the strike zone. I believe that younger siblings should run after foul balls because they want to, not just so they can get a lollipop from the snack bar. I believe in the green light on 3-0, catchers always being ready to start the next inning, chalking the batter’s boxes before you chalk the lines and I believe in long, high, towering fly balls that travel 230 feet over the left center fence.
It’s still a work in progress so if you don’t have it memorized before next season that’s okay. Until then, I’ll settle for more gratitude for where we are now as opposed to last year. In 2020, we had to survive on baseball memories, virtual catch, and the thoughts of “what could have been.” This season our kids are out on the field, we’re back in the stands, and the fields feel almost normal again. So if you see Alan behind home plate, munching on our league’s famous avocado egg rolls, think about how even though he loves baseball, he’s there donating his time and his efforts to help your kid be successful. Please don’t make his job any harder by throwing tortillas.
