Homer Little League

. . . feel your heart drop down into your gut as you see how clumsy your child is compared with some of the other children?

. . . wonder if your child will be a failure forever if he plays right field, ending up a janitor, with the pitcher as his boss?

. . wonder why the other parents and children seem to have it all together, when you and your child do not?

. . wonder if practicing with your child and attending the Little League games really make a difference later on - or is your job really more important?

. . . feel like pulling your hair out in aggravation when trying to teach your child to play?

. . . wonder if the look on your face tells your child more than what comes out of your mouth?

one

The Mother of All Meetings

I glanced at my watch - 6:00 P.M. The sun was starting to set behind the San Gabriel Mountains, filling the sky with the dreamy hue of dusk. I still had three patients left to see, a fistful of phone messages to return, and a stop to make at the hospital to check on a patient I had admitted that morning. Oh, anxiety, how I love it! I also had my first Little League parents meeting, for which I could not be late. I thought again about why, with my schedule, I ever took on this extra responsibility. I often burn the candle at both ends; was I trying to burn it in the middle, too? No! If I did not schedule time for my own children, who would?

I tried to hide my time predicament while seeing my last three patients. The meeting would start at seven-thirty sharp. If only I had an identical twin brother, I thought for the nine millionth time. I purposely did not look at my watch again until I jumped behind the wheel of my car in the doctors parking lot. I winced- it was seven-thirty. I flew out of there as if I were rushing to a cardiac-arrest code. I was certain all the parents would be at my house by now, waiting. What type of manager would they think I was? What kind of example would I set? I decided I had better drop the part in my speech about punctuality, or they might all die laughing.

As I often do, I carried on three conversations with myself at once as I tore through the streets. Where had I put the instruction sheet sent by the Little League president? Well, I remembered what it looked like - would just ad-lib. Where was that list of parents' and children's names? Did I tell them seven o'clock or seven-thirty? Racing through a stop Sign - or rather, making a courtesy slow down - jotted down some quick notes. First, I would do a common - sense discussion on the developmental characteristics of Little Leaguers, followed by some neurophysiology and the neuropsychological gestalt of parent-and-child interaction, then finish up with some psychodrama and play therapy. Nah, that would never work. Even medical students fell asleep when I tried that.

Seven thirty-nine. I had made the fifteen-minute drive from the hospital to my house in nine minutes. As I opened the door, I switched my distraught facial expression to one that read, "Hiya, folks, I'm your kids' Little League manager." Instead of being greeted by a crowd of enthusiastic parents, though, I found only a handful of adults milling around the room while their little tots ran through the halls. We adults all sat down and had some stilted, quiet conversation, as if we were at a wake. Thirty minutes later, half the parents were still not present, so I got on the telephone. Those not there, however, had excuses: it was poker night, or a "bad time." Some honestly said, "You mean we have to go to the meeting to have our kids play Little League?" It suddenly dawned on me: hey, these parents think this is a babysitting service! And here I had risked getting three driving violations to be here on time not to mention my life and those of my patients. As I continued phoning the missing parents, I looked down at the stack of notes shoved into my breast pocket - return calls I had yet to make to my patients. By eight-thirty I decided to start the meeting, even though a third of the parents had still not shown up.

That first year, I began with the topics I thought were supposed to be important - you know: shoes and pants, gum chewing, rubber cleats, the time and date of the opening ceremonies. Of course, by my second year, I realized how naive I had been. I had forgotten to spell things out, like "Make sure your child's shoes

are tied," and "Make sure he or she's gone to the bathroom before practice," and, most important, "Make sure you come back to pick up your child." Though these things may seem obvious, I discovered during my first several years as manager that even the obvious needed to be spelled out, because the parents (myself included) were often not much more than grown-up kids. As the seasons passed, I found this meeting could be both a memorable and enlightening experience enlightening because most parents entering Little League have little insight into the tremendous potential impact it can have on both their children and their family's interactions. (I've seen families grow and get divorced, right on the Little League diamond.) Little League is often the families' first experience of son-and-father or daughter-and-father bonding. Of fifty parents questioned, forty-five mentioned their first meeting as being both the most memorable and influential on their outlook on Little League.

I realized after my first year that no matter how awe-inspiring the first meeting was, unless those chairs were filled with parents -and grandparents, uncles, aunts, or whomever else - it would have no impact. By my second year, I learned some sure-fire tactics for getting families there.

First, I had to personally call all the parents myself, and emphasize four things:

I stressed that they, as parents, must first invest in their family, and then in their careers and jobs. All of us trying to make ends meet sometimes wonder which comes first, the chicken or the egg. There must be no doubt in families that the children come first, before the job. Children must not be sacrificed for any job,

no matter how difficult the going gets. As the saying goes, "Where there's a will, there's a way."

By my third year, full and punctual participation was the rule, not the exception. After dispensing with the pleasantries of "Hi, what school did you go to?" and "Oh, I buy my groceries there, too," the meeting would begin.

I once had a professor who said on the first day of class, "For centuries, teachers have asked, How can I gain the attention of my students? Jokes will keep some of you awake, informative lectures will keep some of you interested, and debates will keep some of you involved. However," he paused to put his hand in his brief case and pull out some papers, "an exam will keep you all awake, interested, and involved!" And so it did!

I decided to try it myself: "I want to welcome those of you who are in Little League for the first time to the beginning of a wonderful journey. As with any trip you undertake, though, you must be prepared. Is there air in the tires? Is the tank gassed up? Do you have proper clothing and enough food? Well, I have a test for you parents who are either new to the game or my team, to see if you (not your children) are prepared to embark on this journey through Little League."

At that moment, I could usually tell the type of parents I was dealing with. Some would laugh, thinking I was joking; others would begin to chew their nails. Still others would sink down into their chairs with their hands already up, looking for the bathroom.

To the surprise of those still smiling, I would smile back and say, "The first question is: What do you expect your Little Leaguer to learn from baseball?"

As I looked around, the parents' eyes would gaze off in every direction - as long as it was not mine. I always started with the one whose hand was up first, or, if no one volunteered, with the one trying hardest not to be called on - that way, I could put him or her out of misery soonest.

After a couple of indecisive gulps, he would say, "To learn to win despite the odds." He would follow this announcement with furtive glances, looking for approval from one of the other parents. I then went around the room in an orderly fashion. The first answer was usually followed by variations on the same theme: to learn to be the best by winning, to learn to compete and win. Yes, invariably, to win is what parents first expect their children should do. With each collaborating answer, the parents' focus became more certain, and their answers more emphatic. By the time we had gone around the room, they were smugly nodding in unison, "Yes, to win!"

If you do, you join 74 percent of the parents I polled at first meetings, who answered the same. Rather than contradict their answer, or give them one I felt was more appropriate, I would then rephrase their collective response to put it in a different light. "So, in other words, you expect your child and his or her team to beat another child, to beat another team?" Instantly, the facial expressions would turn to frowns, and the confident postures would begin to dissolve.

"Question two," I would go on without waiting for comments. "What do you think your children expect from baseball?" This was invariably followed by a curtain of silence. Kids are right- parents do not understand them. Nobody could come up with this answer. You would have thought I had just demanded a detailed account of Einstein's Law of Relativity.

I asked these questions at this first meeting to lay the foundation for the parents' concepts of Little League - since the children would be playing not only with me, but often would continue on in baseball. Why a test? In the academic field, professors know a person's memory for an item is only 33 percent one month after a test if he answered correctly, but is 73 percent if he answered incorrectly and was then corrected. We do learn better from our mistakes.

Taking a break from the quiz, I would then ask if anyone had questions of his own. I would quickly deal with giving out the times, dates, and length of the practices, so the parents knew when to drop off and pick up their children. I then asked my next quiz question.

"What should you expect from me?" These answers were usually right on the money: "I expect you to set a good example for my child."

"I expect you to give him or her encouragement and be supportive." Some even said they expected me to love their child as they did. To be reliable, to help the child win was often the last request.

Finally, I would ask those parents who had been involved in Little League before what they first asked their children after a game, if they had not been able to attend. The all-time most common answer was "Did you win today?" The second most frequent question was "How did you do?"

What was my point? Simply that starting from this first meeting, I wanted my team parents to refocus away from "I want my child to learn to win," or the pursuit of perfection, to the pursuit of contentment and confidence; from "I want my child to be the best player on the best team"-the pursuit of talent - to "I want my child to be a good sportsman"-the pursuit of character. In other words, I wanted them to think about how Little League could make a difference in their child's development - that trek through life that begins with childhood, goes through adolescence, the teen years and young adulthood, and into early child raising years, on through senility.

The point of Little League (and the point of this book) is not to teach your child to learn to win, if what you mean by winning is scoring more runs and beating the opponent. Little League is about learning from the experience the game offers - experience that can teach our sons and daughters to enjoy playing; to learn self-acceptance; to build not just talent but, more important, character based on the principles of honesty, sportsmanship, effort, discipline, tolerance, responsibility, persistence, and gratitude. Yes, a child can inherit talent and wealth, but not character - that must be learned from the example you, the parents, provide.

At the same time, Little League is also about teaching us parents how to see the world once again through the eyes and mind of a child, and how to develop child-rearing skills we may not have learned elsewhere. The experience of Little League gives us the opportunity to recognize our children as they really are: bright, open little minds waiting to be accepted and enjoyed. Our interaction in Little League allows us to see the realities of life: we cannot change the children life gives us, but we can change our expectations of them, and accept and love them for the unique individuals they are. Not every child can be the best player, but every child can have a positive experience.

The parent who can do this is the one who ultimately accepts himself or herself. Contented parents rear contented children - or is it the other way around? Likewise, a contented Coach - a coach with character - is an essential factor in getting this ball rolling.

By the way, if you are still wondering what to ask your child when he or she returns from a game, how about "Did you have fun?" or "What did you learn today?" Now let's take a look into the mind and imagination of a child.

two

Mindy's, Stevie's,

& Vinny's Minds

Children see what you mean from what you say

"Go Home"

Slowly and cautiously, Mindy approached the chalk-outlined batter's box for the first time. "Hit that ball, Mindy," her dad encouraged. A bright little white sphere, the baseball sat on the tee like a light bulb on top of a lamppost. Mindy reared back with the bat and swung. A sharp, resonant crack split the morning air as the ball darted and bounced toward Patrick, the second baseman. Patrick bent to scoop up the ball, but it bounced right through his legs into the outfield. Mindy's little legs carried her all the way to second as the right fielder picked up the ball and flung it over Patrick's head into left field. Parents jumped to their feet in jubilation. Mindy's coach began to shout orders, while the opposing coach barked and groaned at his fielders. Mindy's coach waved her to third base. The little gal had never aroused so much adulation and excitement from her coaches and the parents. She ran with all the power her legs could muster and all the determiand skill in her thumping heart. A giant grin of satisfaction crossed her face as she looked into the roaring crowd. Suddenly, as she reached third base, her coach crouched low, and with intensity and the excitement of the moment bellowed, "Go home, go home." Mindy suddenly stopped. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the excited and ranting parents urging her to run home; with a bowed head she began her trek toward the parking lot.

"Time!" the umpire called. All the grown-ups were confused by Mindy's actions. Was she hurt? Had she pulled a muscle? Was she frightened by the crowd? Did she have to go to the bathroom? No! Just when she thought she was doing everything so right, she was told to go home. They did not need her anymore. Her little heart was broken.

Realizing what happened conjured up all sorts of sighs and empathy from the parents, but, being adults - the magicians of logic - they soon forgot the heartwarming episode and began arguing the rules of the game. Was she out for going out of the base pads, as the opposing coach argued, or should the rules be dispensed with since this was an unusual situation?

What do you think?

We adults take so much for granted concerning the use of language. Nothing demonstrates more the developmental gap between Little Leaguers and their parents and coaches than the understanding of language. The apparent misinterpretation of words often sails over the heads of these little people, just as it sometimes sails over our heads. The word strike, for example, means something very different to a union member than to a ballplayer, just as ticker tape may indicate a parade to a politician, yet have another definition for a heart doctor.

Like Da Wind

Stevie, a pleasant, dimple-chinned six-year-old with big brown eyes, eager to please, strode confidently up to the plate. As I delicately set the ball on the tee, I reminded him, "How are you going to run, Stevie?"

"Like da wind, Coach!"

Wacko! The ball bounced straight to the pitcher. Stevie took off like a shot toward first base. The ball, juggled by the pitcher, was now in his hands and ready to be tossed to first. Stevie, racing down the first-base pad, was no more than two steps from the bag. Parents and coaches screamed words of encouragement.

"Run, run, Stevie, run!" Suddenly, just when it appeared that Stevie had the ball beaten by five paces, he put on the brakes and almost came to an abrupt stop, no more than one foot from the bag. He stepped on the base, but not before the ump bellowed, "You're out!"

I took Stevie aside and again reminded him that he could run past first base, he did not have to stop on it. He took this well, as I had a big smile on my face, and I gave him a little pat on the back.

When Stevie came up again, we had a man on first and second. I asked him, "How are you going to run?"

A smile on his face, he said in his most determined voice, "Like da wind, Coach."In a more foreboding tone, I asked, "Are you going to stop at first base?"

"No, sir, Coach!"

Blam! The ball clunked off the tee to the shortstop. The fans cheered as Stevie ran like there was no tomorrow, right toward the bag, never missing a step.

Three men on base. Attention quickly moved to Charlie. I patted him on the back. "The bases are loaded, Charlie. You know what to do." I looked at third base - there was Jennifer. Second base, Ryan. First base - no one. "Where is Stevie?" I yelled.

Everyone stood up. The first-base coach remembered him whizzing by. He was nowhere to be found. Wait! There was some little boy with a yellow Padres uniform running out to the tennis courts in a direct line from home plate. Needless to say, the game was delayed and Stevie retrieved, fully exhausted. If it were not for the fence, who knows where he would be today! Even I marveled. What Stevie lacked in skill, he made up for in effort.

Coaches and parents often forget the importance our words have on these youngsters. To us, they are just suggestions; to the child, they are commands to be dutifully followed. Stevie ran his little heart out, keeping his promise not to stop but to go right past firstbase ,forever.

The Bionic Base Runner

Vinny, in his first game, was on first base. I crouched low to whisper that he must really turn it on, as the team needed this run. He must dig deep, and run his hardest.

Vinny's mind went into overdrive. "You bet, Coach," he said firmly.

Patrick hit a towering drive just over second base. Vinny took off like no tomorrow - but in slow motion. His knees pumped high, his fists thrust back and forth, but there was barely any movement. His tiny pet box turtle could have beaten him to second base.

As fortune would have it, the ball went past the charging center fielder. I screamed, I pleaded, I begged on my knees for him to run, but all this resulted in only a greater pumping and thrusting of little hands and feet. No! I thought as he began rounding second and going to third. He will be out by an hour! I covered my face in anguish as my son strutted toward third base. Miracle of miracles, the center fielder threw the ball over the second-base player's head, into the left-field bleachers. As Vinny reached third, I exploded with all the pent-up emotion of a bull being goaded by a red flag. "What are you doing?" I yelled.

"I was using my bionics, like Steve Austin." Steven Austin, played by Lee Majors, was TV's "Six-Million-Dollar Man," Vinny's hero. When the character turned on his bionics, he was shown in slow motion to emphasize the effort.

Children's minds interpret things literally and concretely, yet their reality is a collage of fact and fantasy. Like Vinny, they can easily confuse a television hero with their own performance on the field. They are miracles of imagination - dutiful and wanting to please, volatile, yet resilient.

Philosophy Pages

Do You Ever:

one

The Mother of All Meetings

two

Mindy's, Stevie's,

& Vinny's Minds