Youth Baseball - Have We Forgotten the Peanuts and Cracker Jack?

I enjoy sports.

I enjoy playing sports. I enjoy watching sports. I enjoy reading about sports. I enjoy talking about sports. I enjoy writing about sports.  

Now substitute "kids" for "sports" in the aforementioned statements. The same holds true.

 

Yes, even the second statement. I have played the role of a child in many a skit, and enjoyed it.  

So it stands to reason that I would enjoy coaching and watching youngsters who participate in youth sports. Well, I do.  

There's one problem... 

Parents. 

Most parents who have entrusted me with the athletic growth of their children have been supportive, cordial, if not downright friendly, helpful, and, well, ideal. The more I see, the more I am truly thankful for this. It seems that type of parent is becoming more scarce every season. I coach youth basketball, a true passion of mine. More specifically, I coach my two kids' teams in a slightly less competitive, church-based league. Great for my kids at their young age. I'm sure that will change as they grow older if they decide to compete at a higher level. I'll coach them as long as they desire me to, and as long as I am making a positive impact. It's such a thrill to watch them grow as people and as athletes while developing skills that will not only improve their performance on the court but in many facets of life - sports-related or not.

Every summer, though, our trek to Texas gives me the fantastic opportunity to watch my nephews play youth baseball. They live over a thousand miles away, so getting to watch them play is a true blessing. They're players. Dickie "V" would call them "diaper dandies" and would be spot-on in his assessment. They eat, sleep, and drink baseball. The middle of the 3 boys sleeps with a bat, one of an inordinate amount that he has purchased with every ten dollars he's earned for various chores and reasons. He may possibly have a different bat for each week of the year. On game day, he wakes up at sunrise, dresses out in full uniform and informs the family (more than once) that he has a game that day. To which his red-eyed dad will sleepily exclaim from beneath his pillow, "Yeah, buddy, but not until 6:30 tonight. That's like 12 hours from now."

"Yep." Makes no difference to him.

All three boys play the game and play it well. Their father was a super player whose career ended soon after high school and some semi-pro travel ball. He's a great teacher of the game and that is evident in the way his kids play. He's also a great dad with common sense and perspective. That separates him from a majority of his colleagues around the country. The guys with whom he coaches seem to all have the same philosophy, and their players do very well. Plus, they are happy. They seem to be having fun - a novel idea for a game, right? The same held true for my son and his coaches when he played youth league baseball.

So, there are good things happening out there in the wide and growing world of youth competitive sports.

The problem is this - for every silver lining, there's a storm cloud. In some cases, it's more of a mom monsoon, coach cyclone, out-of-touch typhoon. As a fan, I've weathered quite a few of these storms, gripping the third base chain link fence - not to prevent being swept away by high tides or gale force winds, but to conceal my incredulity at what I was hearing.

Kids aged under 9 years old were being asked, make that marine-sergeant ordered, to basically be adults (ideally that infinitesimally small percentage who play Major League Baseball), be perfect, be as far from a 9-year-old as possible.

Use your best Arkansas hog-calling, chalkboard scraping, state fair carney, Rosie O'Donald, banshee in heat voice when you screech:

 

"Grind and unwind, T.J.!"

 

Or, "That one wasn't even in your wheelhouse, boy!"

 

Maybe, "If you watch that ball again, I'm coming out there. Got me?"  

I really like, "What the (insert word of choice) do you think you're doing out there?!?"

 

Seemed  pretty obvious to me that the kid was studying some very interesting ants in right field - much more interesting than the, let's see, zero balls that had been hit to him to that point.  

My favorite? "C'mon, Zachary! Look alive out there! We're playing baseball! Geez!"

Interpretation: "I don't care that this is your third game today, and it's 101 degrees, and you're stuck out in center field where even MLB All-Stars sometimes watch the jumbo-tron to pass the time, and you'd much rather be swimming with your pals, or eating a hot dog or sno-cone! You should at least look like this is the most important moment of your entire career, check that - life! You've got to be bigger than all that childishness, for God's sake, you're a youth league baseball player! And the next pitch will be even more important! So, even though I make excuses for your inattentiveness in the classroom, that junk will not float out here on holy ground! You cannot have sprung forth from my loins, you ungrateful, uncaring, cretin!" 

Oh, and that's coming from the moms in the stands. 

"You better not swing at that high ball again, Caleb Joseph Mitchell Clark the Third! We cannot lose to this team! Their bedazzling looks like trash." 

At first, it's a little shocking. Young, pleasant, supportive, wholesome-seeming mommies transform into wild-eyed MMA trainers who have just learned that Anthony Weiner has somehow shut down every Starbucks in the world. For a very brief moment, I check to make sure I haven't been unfortunately beamed to a Middle East protest.

 

Then the self-check process begins again whenever an umpire misses a call - overzealous demonstration city. 

The dads are no better, just not as noticeable, except for the one or two who are obviously on hand simply to be thrown out of the park. You see, these guys meet up in the back of Terry's Auto Garage or the 14-hour warmed over burrito counter at the corner Grub-N-Gas and compare stats.  

"Tough day today, Smitty. Took until the 4th inning to get tossed." 

"Not me. You shoulda seen it. I was on that ump during the coaches' meeting before the game and never let up. Of course, I threw in a few motivators for little Johnny. By the second, I was out of there. I think the other team's fans even cheered as Deputy Clark escorted me out. Great day! Now how can we get the league president to step down?"

 Truthfully, it's madness. A slightly more subtle form of hooliganism.

I know the arguments. I'm the first to admit that self-discipline, personal responsibility, and work ethic is in serious decline in our society. Blame can and should be spread around. Parents, though, are certainly a major cause. Kids need to learn the lessons that come from participating in team sports, certainly. But it seems that when it comes to the win-at-all-costs mentality that has permeated throughout the sports environment, even down to tee ball, our perspective is completely out of whack. 

Instead of teaching youngsters the value of teamwork, responsibility, and discipline while having fun playing a game, many so-called coaches are propagating self-promotion (especially in themselves, which spills down to the players), isolation, and that mistakes are not acceptable, much less learning experiences. Isn't that what youth leagues are for? Learning experiences? The message should be, "Learn from your mistakes and failures and always strive to improve." Instead, many kids are getting the good ol' "Failure is not an option" line. That's perfect for bringing home astronauts from a space flight gone awry; not so great for 8 year-olds developing new skills and improving hand-eye coordination. If done the right way, eventully failure is often not an option because of the progression of learning and experience and mastery - not because some jerk trying to make up for the not-so-glorious glory days says it.

When a 10 year-old sobs uncontrollably, set off by being tagged out in a run-down and then chastised loudly and forcefully in front of his team's dugout by his coach/dad (can we shorten it to cad?), only to then be handed off to red-faced Mom, who has come out of the stands to reiterate dad's sentiments from the other side of the dugout, there's a serious flaw in our perspective. 

It seems to all boil down to ego. It's as though many young players are playing, in essence, to make their coaches and parents look good. The adults don't want to lose face in the stands or on the field. And if little Jackson drops a pop fly or strikes out or, God forbid, acts like a kid, its as though his parent(s) and coaches have failed miserably. Then, embarrassment sets in for the "grown-ups". Followed soon thereafter by unreasonable reactions. 

"That's 10 more laps around the field after the game, Colton. Now you're up to 15 after missing the tag in the 4th!"

Ego also drives out the spirit of the game.

 

"Put it in his face, J.W. Put it...in...his...face!"

 

Whatever that means.

 

The fiercest competition is often in the stands. The music, the attire, the cheers, the insults hurled at the umpires, the sad but hilarious back-and-forth: 

"Go get him, Petey. He can't hit you," shouts an oversized mom in an undersized red tank top, showing shoulders of an even brighter red.

"Knock it down his throat, Corey. Show him what you've got," screams an emaciated mom in a bedazzled t-shirt, bedazzled ball cap and bedazzled 5-inch diameter sunglasses. All in navy blue.

 "Ball," says the ump, in a very matter-of-fact manner.

 

Moans, groans, jeers, and choice words are delivered from one side of the plate, while the other side can't say enough nice things about the calls today.

"Way to hang, Corey. You got him where you want him. Make sure it's in your zone. Grip it and rip it. Make him wish he was never born!" Too many things to remember, if you ask me.

"C'mon, Petey! Locate it! Put it in his grill and make him think about it!" Oh man, something else for the batter to think about now?

"Straaahhhhhk!" growls the ump, a little more emphatically.

 

Roles reverse. Death threats come from the other side now, while their opposition is planning a campaign for the ump's obvious ascent to mayor.

"Don't worry about that one, Corey. Ump's blind as your great-granddaddy. Now hit the dang ball and knock this punk out of his shoes!"

"That's what I'm talking about, Petey! Finish him off! No prisoners! Send him home crying to his mommy!"

 

Oops. Shouldn't have said mommy.

Snooty glances and evil leers are cast like missiles at a distance of 12-20 feet.  

This, of course, continues, waxes and wanes to crescendos and lulls. Occasionally full blown arguments break out, someone gets ejected, fists are thrown, hair pulled, bedazzled stones rudely yanked off of clothing, and riots have even occurred, possibly from the bedazzling defacement.  

 The all-too-common question enters my mind - "Really?

Nobody enjoys losing. Nobody wants to screw up. Nobody wants to disappoint. Not even Tommy, stuck out in right field, who happens to be working on the world's first miniature sand drawing recreation of Hurricane Abernathy (named after his rather rotund and vociferous math teacher) as the ball rolls past him and the bases clear. But there's a much larger and more important picture for kids of these young, impressionable, and formative ages. And if you can't see that, then maybe it's time to take yourself out of the ballgame.