Bench the Parents

Like just about every father of good intentions gone wild, I coached a youth baseball team once for kids between the ages of 10 and 12. It was in the mid-’90s, and I was determined to do it the right way: victory with honor, you might say.

I bought a little clipboard to keep track of all the players so everybody played equal amounts. I encouraged and I clapped. I treated strikeouts as home runs, giving my little minions a pat on the rump just like the big boys do, whispering such clever motivational bromides as, “You’ll get ‘em next time!” I really did want to do it the right way. I really did want to place sportsmanship ahead of winning. I really did want to involve all the kids, even the ones who were perfectly content to sit at the end of the bench and pick their noses and hold the bat as if it were a toxic waste stick. When my son came in to pitch, I promised not to grimace, or show disappointment when he got a case of the yips with the bases loaded and acted as if home plate were located in Canada. I promised not to get into screaming fights with other coaches, some of whom acted as if they were the vituperative worst of Bobby Cox and Tommy Lasorda rolled into one.

Promises....Promises...Promises....