The coming of spring means different things to different people. To the sun worshiper, it means that the endless months of depression and white skin are finally over; to the clean-freak, it means it’s time to scrub down the house from top to bottom; to the lover of gardening, it’s time to start preparing the soil for all the glorious new growth which is just around the corner; and to the baseball lover, it means that Little League season has arrived.
And this year, my seven-year old son talked me into signing up to manage his pee-wee baseball team, the Reds. His argument was simple and effective. Since I had managed his older brother’s pee-wee teams, I owed him.
“If you’re the manager, Dad,” he explained to me with deep conviction, “I’ll get to be the pitcher.”
“It doesn’t exactly work that way, Kyle,” I said. “Plus, in pee-wees, there is no pitcher. Everyone hits off of a tee.”
“Right,” he said, obviously starting to question what kind of manager I was going to be if I didn’t even know that you need a pitcher to play baseball.
“Kyle,” I tried to explain, “to tell you the truth, I’m a little burned out on baseball coaching. Maybe you could wait another year? You’re only seven you know.”
“But, Dad,” he said with his most pathetic voice, “that’s what you said last year.” Then he looked up at me with those big brown eyes and his facial expression left no doubt that he was thinking those awful words which all parents fear; you love my brothers (or sisters) more than you love me.
So, once again, it was time to break out the fluff balls and undersized mitts and prepare my ears for the aluminum “clink” of the bat. It was also time to remind myself of some of the things that are required of a successful pee-wee manager.
First, you have to be really good at tying double-knots. Pee-wees are, for the most part, six and seven- year-olds, and almost all of them will show up for every practice (and most of the games) with at least one shoe untied.
Second, you have to be really good at finding things. Pee-wees lose their hats, their bats, their gloves, their snack bar money, and even their parents from time to time.
Third, you have to be really good at being able to talk some sweet, unsuspecting soul into being the team mother. She is the person who has to, among many other things, organize the team float for the Opening Day and also collect all the money from the candy sale. This person always ends up being a saint in my eyes.
Fourth, you have to be able to quickly establish a set of often repeated rules, the most important being that only one pee-wee at a time, the hitter, can have a bat in his or her hands. There is nothing quite as frightening as watching five or six eager young pee-wees warming up for batting practice all at the same time.
Fifth, you have to be able to cheerfully accept the fact that the attention span for a perfectly normal pee-wee is approximately 30 seconds, and on warm, sunny afternoons with lots of puffy white clouds floating above them, that number drops dramatically.
Sixth, you have to have energetic adult base coaches with loud and distinctive voices. Pee-wees love to get on base and race around the diamond, but they’re not always sure just when to take off or what direction to go. A good base coach can get them pretty skilled at running to first base instead of third when they hit the ball, but only a great one can organize things after that.
Finally, and maybe most importantly, you have to be able to make all of your parents and grandparents truly believe that pee-wee baseball isn’t all about winning and losing, but rather it’s about riding around in a float on Opening Day, pizza parties, after-the-game snow cones, good sportsmanship and learning to love the game.
“Dad,” said my son as he was happily putting on his uniform, “the Reds are going to kick butt!”