Bowling may happen alone these days, but while helping coach the Newton West Little League Cubs, I've realized that baseball isn't a mere game, it's a zone. Personalities emerge - of kids, coaches, parents, officials - during the small events that comprise a season. We are a village, not a conjured-up days-of-yore version, but still, a place a little better than the real world, fuller of noble activity, and with many more 15-minute spells of fame.
Our village favors those who score runs. Little League's top players, here in the majors, must find it a pressing but rational place, where life is statistically reliable and practice begets achievement begets renown. Inside baseball, virtue can be calculated to the third decimal place.
Eight games into the season, the word is out about the best and worst players on every team. Led by their fearsome pitcher, Tommy Bishop, the undefeated Tigers walloped us 7-3 on May 15. "He's not as fast as I thought he would be, Dad," my son, Will, said after whacking a single his second time up.
Still, we tripped over grounders, dropped flies, and overthrew bases, stiffened by the pitcher's stuff, and by his reputation, scoring just a run while they scored three. Will couldn't get a grounder out of his glove, and runs scored. Afterward, Cubs manager Bob Joyce told the team, "We played nowhere near what you guys do during every practice!" This pep talk followed others; after our opening 11-1 victory, we'd dropped six in a row.
"Being good" looms through our childhoods in many guises. It's confusing here, because the zero-sum result overshadows a game's many successful moments. No matter how anyone has played, the worst player in a winning game feels good and even the hero of the losing team feels bad, though not for long, this being baseball, which after all, spits out life lessons by the hundreds: on concentrating, trying hard, accepting frustration, sacrificing, respecting the opposition, staying modest in glory, staying hopeful in shame, and sharing - through the AAA level, Little League rules stipulate equal playing time for all players.
In the majors, egalitarianism gives way to temptation; all players must bat at least once and field in two innings, but a half-dozen starters typically play all game, and the rest share the bench and remaining slots. Those who strike out and flub throws and catches and warm the bench the most know it, and mention it in little, awkward jokes. These 11- and 12-year-olds don't always mask their exasperation well, even as they struggle to accept their friends as they are. One oft-benched player, Vito, is sunny, a strong student and amiable conversationalist, kind, funny, and might well win a team vote for "most popular."
Still, the string of defeats brought on general frustration among our Cubs. The strikeouts and botched plays were followed by faces mirroring impatience on one side, self-contempt on the other.
Will, whose athletic genes clearly are from my wife's family, not mine, has always enjoyed hearing my sad tales of a childhood spent benchwarming. The Cubs' losses have made me more attentive to the kids on the bench, as the team tenses and waits for their luck to turn.
A few afternoons ago, Coach Kevin Fitzgerald convened an extra practice. He set up a tough fielding drill to show the kids they indeed had the moves to win. Then he delighted them by ending the drill way early. He took out a Wiffle ball. "Will and Alex, you're captains, pick teams. Will picks first."
I admire Will's next move more than I would a home run.
He pointed, and said, "I take JOEY!" Joey, who puts in more bench-time than anyone. Alex looked startled, and picked someone from the middle of the pack. Will went right on: "I take Vito!"
Alex, catching on to what Will had set out to do, fell into line. The teams assembled, ascending, rather than descending, the village hierarchy. Joey beamed and danced around. Everyone looked glad. And Vito said right out, "I appreciate your picking the worst players first. Puts us guys at the end of the line in the spotlight."
I end up on Will's team. After two pathetic strikes, the little devils move in to bunt-distance for the kill. Somehow I shoot a single through them, up the middle. A batter later, I score on Will's hit. It's our team's only run, and the first time I've crossed the plate in 30 years.
Will and I now have each scored our team's only runs, he, in a game that counted, I in a game that counted for Joey and Vito and me. It turns out that athletes, including one's son, have the power to anoint the meek.
Just before the game a few days later, Coach Kevin gathered the team in the empty outfield.
"On one knee, throw your gloves and bats in the center," he commanded, preparing a ceremony to banish the boys' losing ways. He arranged the gloves in a ring, and covered them with the bats. "This is an exorcism," he said. Imitating him, the kids held their arms straight out, waving them over the gloves and bats. Kevin intoned, "Oh evil spirits, remove thyselves from these gloves and bats. You picked on the wrong team!"
And we broke the spell, winning 9-2. Joey made a great clutch catch, and looped a single to right. The team cheered wildly for him, twice. Will closed with a 7-pitch final inning. Ethan, our catcher, snagged almost-passed balls that could have cost the game. Afterward, amid exultant high fives, Coach Kevin asked, "Want to know why we won? That exorcism. I was planning to put up the hood on my black jacket. I forgot, but it still worked."
Mark Kramer is chronicling his season as a coach with the Newton West Little League Cubs. He can be reached at kramernarrative@ gmail.com.
