Little League Lessons: Some Things are Better Left Unsaid

The Little League field in Ulysses, Kansas was the best. Edge of town, just beyond the fairgrounds, at the end of a dirt road that turned off Patterson Avenue and ended in the parking lot a few hundred yards later. My Mom once let my sister drive our old Mercury on that road when she was twelve, but I shouldn't tell because my Dad was a Highway Patrolman and it was probably against the law. Maybe the statute of limitations has expired.

Whatever the case, I loved our field at the end of that road. We had bleachers, 10 cent pop at the concession stand, even an announcer in the booth behind home plate. And when a foul ball left the field you could always run it down and turn it in for a dime. Good days.

The memories are many, as life goes, and at 58 maybe I am learning long-term reminiscence makes up for all the daily forgetting. I don't mind too much because the memories are good and happy, with the occasional trouble, as today's memory brings to mind.

We were all people, of course, having no other option, and faults and foibles come out. Sometimes anger, sometimes loud mouths. One time there was a major disagreement and umpire flip-flop at a playoff game in another town. The umps had a tough job. 

And there was always the game chatter. When we were in the field and a batter was ready we would settle into that competitive cadence: “Hey batter, batter, batter” – repeating until the pitch reached the plate and we would yell, “Swing!!” I can still hear the youthful chorus of voices trying to throw the batter off.

There were also voices from the dugout intended to trouble the pitcher, though they were not as common. I can't remember any of them right off, except one. It fell my happy lot to pitch one night and as I worked through the inning I heard some noise from the opponents' dugout. And then it seemed like my coach, always low-key in my memory, was objecting to the ump about something.

The inning continued and then I realized the problem. Someone in the opposing dugout was yelling a sort of juvenile slur: “Pitcher stinks!” I don't know how many times they said it. I was absorbed in trying to get the ball across the plate. And then things came to a head. Turns out it wasn't just anyone yelling at me. It was the opposing coach.

I can still see his face, and I sort of remember the confrontation near the plate. After warnings, the umpire had kicked the coach out of the game. But the coach was having none of it. He stormed out and confronted the ump, who stood his ground. Next thing I knew the coach was leaving the field in his car, spewing a cloud of dust. They had to finish the game without him and I have no idea who won.

This is pretty tame compared to some things that happen at games. And for my part I was all but oblivious. But I am glad the ump believed in a sort of decorum that means the coach can't taunt the young pitcher with personal slurs, even if they are mild. Baseball teaches life if we let it, and sportsmanship is a big part of that.

I felt bad for that coach and didn't see him much after that. I'm sure it was rough – most of us have been in the ditch of hot-headedness and errant words. And the ump had his job to do as well. In all the joy of a summer baseball evening we all learned some lessons: people matter, young people need good examples, we all answer to someone, and when we get out of line someone has the tough job of setting us straight.

In that beloved Little League field we learned this and a hundred other life lessons, and it will always be happy in my memory.