Confessions of a Little League Coach

In Mandan, they don't have Little League. They have Cal Ripken baseball, which is Little League on a budget. The coaches were dads who wanted to see their children play baseball and have fun. Well, some of the coaches wanted to have fun. Others wanted to win, no matter what the cost.

My boys were stellar baseball players, or at least I thought so. I liked Derek in the outfield and Scott at second base. The only problem was that Derek wanted to be a catcher and Scott a pitcher. However, dad knows best. Except that I didn't. Once I let Derek start catching and Scott start pitching, they both liked the game a whole lot better and played better, too.

But that's just the beginning of my foibles. Then, like now, I couldn't remember names. I had a center fielder whose real name was Nick. But do you think I could ever remember his name? No. He quickly learned to answer to anything that started with an "N." Once he made a nice catch in the outfield and I hollered "Nice catch, Nels!"

He doffed his cap at me...a recognition of his coach's appreciation. At that same moment, somebody on the bench jabbed me in the ribs and said, "Nobody names their boys Nels anymore."

We had two coaches on the team, me and another fellow who took the game way too seriously. He could quote rules from official Cal Ripken baseball rule book quicker and with more accuracy than Billy Graham can quote Scripture.

It didn't matter what the other team did, it was against the rules in the rule book...or so said the expert. However, the teenager umping the game never read the rule book either. So he never changed his calls just because the expert was quoting chapter and verse.

My sons weren't the only brothers on the team. There was another set of brothers who came with a dad. The dad wanted to be a coach but didn't want the responsibility.

So he just sat on the bench and made rude comments...mostly about his sons. When one of them asked him if he could impart some words of wisdom, the dad said sternly, "Don't suck."

Wow, so much for "Let's win one for the Gipper."

Another memory I have is watching my oldest son get plunked with a baseball from a tall lanky pitcher on another team. It didn't matter who was on base, what was the score or whether the game was starting or ending...the lanky pitcher always had it out for Derek and never missed hitting him with a baseball.

Finally, I said enough was enough and even warned the umpire before the game that the pitcher had it out for my son. "So keep an eye on the pitcher and his bean balls," I hollered.

Sure enough, Derek got plunked with a high inside pitch his first time to the plate.

I came unglued on the bench and threatened to wring the pitcher's neck if he ever did that again.

Much to my chagrin, Derek and the "head hunter" later became good friends. So I asked the pitcher one day if he was aiming at my son on purpose.

"No sir," he said, "But the more I tried not to hit him, the worse my control got. I just got something in my head that I couldn't get out and the more I thought about it, the worse I pitched."

You know, I felt sorry for the pitcher. Eventually, his family left Mandan and all was forgotten. He was a nice boy. They were all nice boys. And I'm glad I had the chance to coach them in Little League...er, Cal Ripkin league.