It’s the season to volunteer at the old ballgame
Published 4/11/06
What with stories about Barry Bonds making a mockery of the major league home run record and the Duke University scandal involving the lacrosse boys and a hired stripper, you may be tempted to hide the sports section from the youngsters in your house.
But, in fact, our boys and girls need to read about their spring and summer youth sports options. And they need to know when to head to the firehouse or the community center to sign up. No, this is not an opportunity to get the kids out of the house and out of your hair. Because if you read between the lines of the sports page announcements, you’ll find that that these leagues need moms and dads to make the games happen.
As I’ve read through the youth league announcements this year, I couldn’t help but remember the times when Jesse and I signed up for baseball as father and son, the son preferring infield, the father begging to play anywhere but the umpire position.
We came up through the farm system together, from T-Ball through Babe Ruth. While Jesse rounded the bases, I made my rounds as an unsure base coach, scribbler in the team scorebook, chalker of zigzagging foul lines, concessions clerk and giver of incorrect change, occasional board member, and the official scorekeeper and scoreboard operator ensconced in the tower while praying that the plate umpire wouldn’t have a statistical question. But my favorite role was that of, and this is one the paper can use in my obituary, “dugout dad.”
In the early years, as a dugout dad, I had the responsibility of relaying messages to parents in the bleachers, breaking up minor bench brawls, keeping the reserves occupied, lowering dugout volume from time to time and raising the chins of players who had been asked to sit for a few innings. When we were at bat, it was my job to keep the players seated according to our offensive lineup to prevent anyone from batting out of turn and causing embarrassment to the franchise. I did all this while hiding my ignorance about the difference between a screwball and a knucklehead.
That’s the great thing about volunteering to help with your son’s and daughter’s leagues. More than a game strategist, you just need to be a mother or father who wants your kids to learn to be part of a team, develop some athletic confidence, get aerobic exercise, and master the fundamentals of the grand old game.
Jesse had some good coaches back in the day. I’m thinking now of Keith Etherington and Ron Buckner on the west side and Gary Brown, Matt Goodpaster and Guy Haynes on the east side. Unlike this dugout dad, they had a head for the game. But they taught the kids to love the game first, thereby getting to the head through the heart.
One of Jesse’s first coaches made it clear early on he didn’t want to see any of his players cry. Jesse and I had pretty much made it through the season dry eyed when, in one of the last practices, I was coaching first and caught a bad hop square in the nose. You know that feeling of getting smacked in the schnoz—and how it automatically activates the tear ducts. I wasn’t sure if the no tear policy applied to dugout dads but I suddenly knew I had left something in the car.
In the Madison Avenue league, dugout dads helped mow the diamonds each week during the summer season. So there I was, riding back and forth from left field to center to right with my headphones on listening to my Grand Funk Railroad collection. Suddenly I noticed a couple league officials waving me down from home plate. Unbeknownst to me, the mower’s deck was on fire and I was charring an ugly black logo into the green outfield grass. We suddenly looked like the home of the Los Alamos League. For the sake of the facility, I was promoted to head coach that day.
Well, I don’t think they let civilians mow anymore, what with that being the highly technical and mechanical procedure that it is. But they still let mothers and fathers help with game day operations and the organizing of sunny blue Saturdays so kids can run and play.
In the bargain, dugout dads and moms get the best bench seats in the house.
What with stories about Barry Bonds making a mockery of the major league home run record and the Duke University scandal involving the lacrosse boys and a hired stripper, you may be tempted to hide the sports section from the youngsters in your house.
But, in fact, our boys and girls need to read about their spring and summer youth sports options. And they need to know when to head to the firehouse or the community center to sign up. No, this is not an opportunity to get the kids out of the house and out of your hair. Because if you read between the lines of the sports page announcements, you’ll find that that these leagues need moms and dads to make the games happen.
As I’ve read through the youth league announcements this year, I couldn’t help but remember the times when Jesse and I signed up for baseball as father and son, the son preferring infield, the father begging to play anywhere but the umpire position.
We came up through the farm system together, from T-Ball through Babe Ruth. While Jesse rounded the bases, I made my rounds as an unsure base coach, scribbler in the team scorebook, chalker of zigzagging foul lines, concessions clerk and giver of incorrect change, occasional board member, and the official scorekeeper and scoreboard operator ensconced in the tower while praying that the plate umpire wouldn’t have a statistical question. But my favorite role was that of, and this is one the paper can use in my obituary, “dugout dad.”
In the early years, as a dugout dad, I had the responsibility of relaying messages to parents in the bleachers, breaking up minor bench brawls, keeping the reserves occupied, lowering dugout volume from time to time and raising the chins of players who had been asked to sit for a few innings. When we were at bat, it was my job to keep the players seated according to our offensive lineup to prevent anyone from batting out of turn and causing embarrassment to the franchise. I did all this while hiding my ignorance about the difference between a screwball and a knucklehead.
That’s the great thing about volunteering to help with your son’s and daughter’s leagues. More than a game strategist, you just need to be a mother or father who wants your kids to learn to be part of a team, develop some athletic confidence, get aerobic exercise, and master the fundamentals of the grand old game.
Jesse had some good coaches back in the day. I’m thinking now of Keith Etherington and Ron Buckner on the west side and Gary Brown, Matt Goodpaster and Guy Haynes on the east side. Unlike this dugout dad, they had a head for the game. But they taught the kids to love the game first, thereby getting to the head through the heart.
One of Jesse’s first coaches made it clear early on he didn’t want to see any of his players cry. Jesse and I had pretty much made it through the season dry eyed when, in one of the last practices, I was coaching first and caught a bad hop square in the nose. You know that feeling of getting smacked in the schnoz—and how it automatically activates the tear ducts. I wasn’t sure if the no tear policy applied to dugout dads but I suddenly knew I had left something in the car.
In the Madison Avenue league, dugout dads helped mow the diamonds each week during the summer season. So there I was, riding back and forth from left field to center to right with my headphones on listening to my Grand Funk Railroad collection. Suddenly I noticed a couple league officials waving me down from home plate. Unbeknownst to me, the mower’s deck was on fire and I was charring an ugly black logo into the green outfield grass. We suddenly looked like the home of the Los Alamos League. For the sake of the facility, I was promoted to head coach that day.
Well, I don’t think they let civilians mow anymore, what with that being the highly technical and mechanical procedure that it is. But they still let mothers and fathers help with game day operations and the organizing of sunny blue Saturdays so kids can run and play.
In the bargain, dugout dads and moms get the best bench seats in the house.
posted by Jack W. Williams | 2:51 PM
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