"I always say that I can take sixteen kids,put eight of them on one side and eight on the other. And, based on that, I'll tell you who's goingto win the game. I won't watch any kidtake batting practice. The eight kidswho throw the ball back and forth better with each other are going to win thegame." -- former Major Leaguer Bill Ripken, from the bookPlay Baseball the Ripken Way
Bill Ripken played for four different MLB teams duringhis 12-year career, compiling more than 3,000 plate appearances. He's most famous for being the kid brother ofHall of Famer Cal Ripken (although Bill was the face of the game for a few weeks in 1989). The Ripken brothers have parlayed theirexhaustive knowledge of baseball fundamentals into a respectedbrand name within the youth sports industry. Their two books on teaching baseball aremust-reads for anyone new to Little League.
That said…Bill Ripken is full of sh*t.
My eight-year-old son Jalen has developed a surefire –and even more concise – eye test to determine the comparative talent levels oftwo different teams. As we pulled intothe parking lot for the penultimate game of the fall season, our opponents (theWhite Sox from nearby Escondido) were loitering along the left field fence.
"They'reHUGE!", Jalen exclaimed. "We're gonna lose."
I chalked up my son's assessment to typical childhyperbole and went about my usual on-arrival routine – shakily lugging two fullbuckets of baseballs to our dugout with a large equipment bag strapped to mynarrow back. The heavy loads afforded methe opportunity to slowly loaf past our opponents and prepare my own scoutingreport. And, wow…theywere huge. Unlike myson, however, I wasn't entirely ready to concede defeat. I racked my mind for the first tried-and-trueencouraging platitude that wouldn't betray my own emotions at the moment.
"Hey, J", I called ahead; "Let's focus onhaving fun today, OK?"
ProTip: When searching for subterfuge, never pick thefirst platitude. Jalen didn't respond,so my only hope was that he didn't hear me.
As the rest of my players began arriving, the murmursabout the other team's size spread quickly. During warm-ups, a few parents paced fretfully in front of their seatsdown the first base line. One of themoms sporadically shouted "Be careful!" to her child with an urgencyusually reserved for policemen whose beat includes a street named after MartinLuther King. It was too late to diffuseany intimidation, so I took some of my best players aside and tasked them withleading by example.
My starting pitcher – and best player on our team – wasan endearingly cocky kid named Colin. Remember that scene at the end of The Bad News Bearsin which the Yankees refuse to throw strikes to Kelly Leak? Then, on a 3-0 count, Leak swings at a pitchthat's two feet outside and hits it to the wall. Colin did that once or twice a game for usthis season. As a pitcher, he'ssimilarly dynamic.
Jalen LOVES catching Colin because it's the easiest jobon the squad. Most times, J doesn't haveto move anything more than his left arm to catch the recurrent strikes and hisright arm to toss the ball back. THIStime, though…J had to work. Colin seemingly reached two strikes on every batter he faced, but thenalternated between overthrowing the next few pitches or taking too muchoff. The end result was anuncharacteristic succession of wild pitches, passed balls and 3-2 lollipopsthat were walloped all around the outfield.
In Colin's defense, he didn't get much help from hiscatcher. Jalen allowed one run to scorewhile half-half assing it in pursuit of a wild pitch. Another scored when J transformed a pitch inthe dirt into a Three Stooges tribute. When my kids left the field after the top ofthe first inning, they were trailing 4-0.
After my leadoff batter was retired; Jalen came to theplate with bad intentions glinting from his comically omnipresent,eye-black-enhanced scowl. If there's ONEthing about my son's occasionally insufferable approach thatI can't get enough of, it's the condescending hand he raises to the umpire whenhe first steps into the batter's box. Jdigs in with his cleats, glaring defiantly in the vicinity of the pitcher, whilesimultaneously offering the universal "time out" signal to theump. It's a common occurrence at theprofessional level. SIGNIFICANTLY lessso in Little League. Trust me.
If there's ONE thing about my son's occasionallyinsufferable approach that I can't stand, it's the way he busts it up the lineon EVERY foul ball. I'm fine with itwhen the fair/foul call is in doubt. But, J breaks out the EricByrnes-worthy false hustle on foul balls hit BEHIND the catcherthat bounce off the backstop. He does itagain here on the first pitch and falls behind in the count, 0-1.
The next pitch is an ankle-high fastball that the11-year-old umpire calls strike two. Asthe manager of the team and father of the batter; I acknowledge my conflict ofinterest on this. But, from my positionas third base coach, I was physically close enough to the moment to declareJalen's reaction as nothing short of fantastic.
J turns towards the umpire, extends both arms andwordlessly expresses his opinion of the umpire's work. His body language screams"Are you sh*tting me?" as the umpire haughtily turns -- hands on hiships -- to face Jalen. J then s-l-o-w-l-yturns to face me. His arms are stillextended as he quickly juts his head in my direction as if to say, "Do youSEE this sh*t, dad? Are you just goingto STAND there while your only son is sh*t on?!" I try to calm him down from the coaches' box,but all I can do is hold up both hands and mouth "relax" two or threetimes.
My son shakes his head in frustration for what feels likeforever before stepping back in. On thenext pitch, he chases an eye-high fastball for strike three. After eight games, it's his first strikeoutof the season. J pounds the head of hisbat into home plate. He similarlystrikes the dirt several more times on his way back to the dugout. J fixes a five-star stare on the ump anddoesn't release it until my next batter grounds out weakly to second base.
The White Sox would score two more in the top of thesecond inning to take a 6-0 lead. Mybest pitcher had been pulverized, so I immediately switched to a SpringTraining mindset with the idea that every one of my available arms would throwat least one inning. For some reason,the White Sox seemed to share my philosophy. They changed pitchers in the bottom of the second inning and my kids feastedon the fresh arm for five runs.
My next three pitchers gave up a run apiece in the third,fourth and fifth innings. My hitters hadseveral opportunities in the bottom of each frame, but couldn't send a runnerhome. As we took our last at-bats in thesixth and final inning, the White Sox led 9-5.
The bottom half of our lineup was due up before we couldturn the batting order over. We werehanging our hopes on four kids who, before this fall, had never faced livepitching before. But, my number sixhitter singled. The next batterwalked. And, after a strikeout, mynumber nine hitter -- who hadn't gotten a hit all season -- walked. With my leadoff hitter up, the White Soxchanged pitchers. It didn't matter. Colin doubled home two runs to cut the leadto 9-7.
Jalen was up next. He worked the count to 3-2 and fouled off the next three pitches beforedrawing a walk. He helpfully yelled tome from across the diamond, "Dad! I'm the winning run!" The White Sox pitcher simply could not throwstrikes. Eight pitches later, Jalen wasstanding next to me at third base as our third and fourth runs of the inninghad scored on two bases loaded walks. This led to what might be the greatest conversation I'll ever have withmy son:
Jalen: "Should I try to score on a wildpitch?"
Me: "OK. But, you'd better be goddamn sure you canmake it."
Jalen: "Don't worry, dad. I'll be goddamnsure."
Me: "..."
Oh, don't look at me like that. If I can't cuss in front of my young son in a9-9 game when he's at third base AND the winning run; then whencan I cuss in front of him?!
On a 1-0 pitch, the ball squirted away from the catcherand Jalen dashed towards home plate in a flash. He slid feet first with the winning run as we pulled out a 10-9victory. J celebrated with the one ortwo other teammates who were paying attention to the situation, while the restof the kids meticulously planned for their postgame invasion of the snack bar.
After the game, I learned that my 7, 8 and 9-year-oldshad just defeated a team that was made up of mostly 10 and 11-year-olds. I could not have been more proud of my kids'collective effort -- even though it exposed the erroneous notion of the"eye-test" opponent assessment. Like former 12-year MLB veteran Bill Ripken; it would seem Jalen Cameronis also full of sh*t.
And, I'm perfectly fine with that.
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