The LL Chronicles #20: Jimmy Dugan was Dead Wrong

11-4 win in our Little League playoff game. I was proud of them until their over-enthusiasm at the postgame pizza from Little Caesar's. -- From my Twitter feed, May 30

In our six-team division, the top two seeds earned first-round byes. This meant that my A's -- the number three seed -- played the sixth-seeded Cardinals in the first round. During the regular season, we went 3-0 against the Cards and outscored them, 48-26. (Oh, don't look at me like that. I didn't keep the stats. I simply lifted them from our league's website. They're the monsters who've distilled the wholesome spirit of Little League baseball into "who won" and "by how much". I'm just sippin' the illicit liquor, I didn't make it.)

My kids were criminally overconfident coming in to this game. There were intermittent chirps of "...the Cardinals are the worst team in the league..." and "...we'll beat them, easy..." throughout our pregame warm-ups. Before my team took the field in the first inning, I gave them the "any team can be beaten" speech with two obvious references that, admittedly, might not have resonated with 11 boys born in 2003-2004. (However, my eight-year-old son Jalen knows who Kirk Gibson and Jose Rijo are and, more importantly, why they're both bad, bad men.)

Our inconsistent offense blew a few scoring opportunities early, but after two innings we'd put five runs on the board. Unfortunately, Garrett -- my best pitcher -- surrendered four runs of his own before pitch count and next-game availability concerns forced me to replace him mid-inning in the second with just one out. We got out of the inning when my next pitcher struck out the next two hitters -- with the bases loaded -- on just seven total pitches.

At the start of the third inning, I brought in Jalen to pitch. Although my previous pitcher, Jeff, was efficient and overpowering, I'd seen enough of him all season to know that riding his arm was a lot like a blackjack table. His hot hand could go cold at a moment's notice. Better to leave the table a few chips up than down. Plus, the ultra-early hook meant he could come back and pitch in our next game just 48 hours later. This strategy made perfect sense to me, but when Jalen took the mound, I could hear some parents behind me offering unsolicited, critical opinions of my move. Even the home plate umpire called over to me, "You know your last kid only threw seven pitches, right?"

Thankfully, Jalen saved my reputation's bacon with his best outing of the season -- two scoreless innings, three strikeouts and one unfortunate hit-by-pitch in the ribs of best friend at school, Joseph. I've previously written about this boy. He's the one who'd wave to Jalen before each of their hitter/pitcher match-ups. Jalen gets a little intense when he's pitching and didn't immediately apologize. I was going to talk to him about it after the inning, but as he toed the rubber to make his next pitch, he stepped off, turned to first base and asked Joseph, "Are we still friends?" Joseph nodded. "Sorry about pitching inside", Jalen said. "I just wanted to back you off the plate."

I suppose if African-Americans are going to take any societal morals from the 1950s and 1960s, it might as well be professional pitching philosophy.

We effectively put the game away in the bottom of the third. With two out and the bases loaded, our last-place hitter stepped to the plate. By my unofficial count, he'd recorded just two or three hits all season. The score was still 5-4 and the potential for a big inning was just three strikes from slipping away. Instead, on the first pitch, he lined one down the left field line for a two-run single. I screamed "TWO! TWO! TWO!" as the ball skipped into the corner. Seemed like a sure double. Instead, I turned to find my batter barely halfway to first base. I put the brakes on his glacial pace, satisfied with a single.

A five-run third inning gave us the cushion we needed and the A's won going away, 11-4. Mediocre, barely-edible pizza for everyone! As I reached for my first and only slice -- the last slice left among the six pies purchased -- my #3 hitter yelled, "I want it!" Sure, I thought. You took two called strike threes tonight. You've earned it!

2nd round Little League playoff game tonight w/o our best hitter. "A family event", I was told. I assume "funeral", but even then... -- From Twitter, June 1

After our first round victory, we were slated to play the Padres -- the two-seed in the tournament, the best offense in the division and the team that hung 20(!) runs on us the last time we met. I didn't learn that we'd be without Jeff, our best hitter, until the morning of our game. I was...disappointed, but opted to take the high road. I've heard directly from other coaches who, when hearing that one of their better players will be unavailable, ask why he can't make it and try to guilt the kid's parents into bringing him to the game anyway. I never want to be THAT guy.

We got off to a phenomenal start. Jalen moved up to the leadoff spot and contributed to a five-run first inning. Garrett, my starting pitcher, held the Padres to only one run in the bottom of the frame. Alas, there were a few more frames to be played. The Padres' pitching held us to just three more runs the rest of the way, while Garrett and Jalen threw 50 pitches each, but couldn't keep the Pads from scoring five in the second inning and four in the third. Trailing 10-8 in the top of the last inning, we sent the tying run to the plate. He also happened to be our...uh, "least productive" hitter of the season. Called strike three. Ball game.

Still, our first playoff loss wasn't without its moments. For the first time all season, Jalen was hit by a pitch. This was unquestionably Jalen's biggest fear involving the jump to live pitching. During the regular season, when a pitch was in the vicinity of "inside", Jalen would drop his bat, flail his arms and melodramatically bail out.

In the second inning, J was at the plate and facing a burly eight-year-old named Daniel. In all seriousness, he's probably the biggest and strongest kid in our division. His first pitch to Jalen sailed inside and caromed loudly off the backstop. Initially, I hadn't realized that Jalen was hit. The umpire immediately signaled for J to take first base, but he was lying face down in the batter's box.

I raced from the first base coaches' box and could hear the speculation from the parents behind the Padres' dugout that J might've been hit in the face. When I turned my son over, some of the dirt from around home plate had completely adhered to his sweaty face. The streaks of tears were the cleanest parts of his visage.

Me: "It's alright, son. Where'd you get hit?"

Jalen: [sobbing] "In the hand."

Me: "J, the ball went straight to the backstop. It would've ricocheted if it hit you square in the hand."

Jalen: [still sobbing] "What's 'ricocheted'?"

Me: "Jalen, if it DID hit you, it just grazed you. Go to first base."

Jalen: "It DID hit me!"

As we walked up the first base line together, my son and I continued our debate. To the Padres' parents on the first base side, the villain in this discussion was clear.

"Aw, give the kid a break, coach!"

"You need to get some ice on his jaw, coach!"

"Why are you keeping him in the game when he was just hit in the face?!"

Thankfully, Jalen broke the ill-informed tension a few moments later, as he looked up at me with infield dirt still caked to his face.

"Dad...I think I swallowed some chalk."

Awesome.

Little League season over after walkoff loss. Team in tears. Walter Matthau sprayed the Bad News Bears w/cheap beer to cheer them up, right? -- From Twitter, June 4

The remainder of our team's tournament games would be played within the boundaries of the bluntly-titled "losers' bracket". The double-elimination set-up meant that our season would end after one more loss. Our path to the championship required my A's to win games on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and then defeat the sole survivor from the "winners' bracket" -- twice -- during the following week.

Our opponents on this gloomily overcast Monday afternoon were the Pirates. My hitters struggled early, but we pushed a few runs across in the middle innings. On the mound, Garrett and Jalen were constrained by pitch counts, but collectively kept the Pirates within reach of a rally. Entering the top of the last inning, the score was tied 5-5. We then scored four and took a 9-5 lead ahead of the Pirates' last-ups.

Jeff came on to pitch in the previous inning and snuffed out another bases loaded threat with another strikeout. He was popping the catcher's glove with his fastball and even mixing in a pretty good change-up. One of my coaches remarked, "This is the best he's looked all season."

And, then, it wasn't.

Leading off the inning, he walked the first batter on four pitches. This would start a bizarre chain of events, beginning inside the Pirates' dugout. The opposing kids switched to "rally mode" -- superstitiously flipping their caps backwards and shouting encouragement to the next batter. They were loud. They were more than a little obnoxious. They were kids. But, after Jeff went 2-0 on the next batter, he shot an icy glare into the opposing dugout and held it for two or three beats.

Intentional or not, the kids in the Pirates' dugout soon tweaked the timing of their hooting and hollering. They synced it with Jeff's pitching wind-up and delivery. A few moments later, their vocal support devolved into time-released screeches and shrieks. To be clear, they weren't breaking any rules. But, I think they knew what they were doing...and I know their coach did.

With two runners on, one of the Pirates' better hitters came to the plate. As the cascade of screams increased, Jeff put one square in the batter's back. It was the sickest sound I've ever heard on a ball field, as the batter was down for several minutes before taking first base. Not surprisingly, the hit-by-pitch quieted the Pirates' dugout, somewhat. Jeff even battled back to strikeout the next batter. But, his control never really returned. He eventually walked in the winning run and the A's lost 10-9.

As Jeff left the field, he was understandably inconsolable. I met him at the first base line. I wanted to apologize for leaving him in, explain my reasoning and let him know there wasn't anyone else I would've wanted out there. But, before I could fumble around for the first words, he looked up from the glove that was smothering his face and choked out, "I'm sorry I let the team down." Before I knew it, the whole team was shuffling towards me -- some of them obviously disappointed, the rest openly bawling.

My voice cracked about halfway through my final postgame speech to the team. The kids' chorus of sniffles and sporadic gulps of air reached a crescendo just as I finished up. The final 30 minutes of my 2012 Little League managing career were accurately captured in this artist's rendering. Despite the unbelievably kind and encouraging words I heard from the parents after the game, I know it was me who let the kids down.

As usual, Jalen and I were the last ones to leave the field. All of the equipment was packed snugly in my car's trunk, so we plopped down on the bleachers -- a sad, shared attempt to extend our baseball season for a few more minutes. As the field lights automatically switched off, we made our way home. I could hear Jalen weeping softly from the back seat. I could still see my team's tears as I drove along the pitch-black path from the park to our house. And, then I heard Jalen again.

"Dad, are you crying?"

"..."

"It's OK, dad. I won't tell mom."

==

Jalen was in reasonably better spirits by bedtime. The next morning, I spoke to Jeff's dad and found out that Jeff wore the resiliency of a typical kid. One week after our playoff defeat, the team got together for the traditional end-of-season party. As I entered the playroom at our local Round Table Pizza, I witnessed 11 kids gleefully clinging to one of those mechanical pony rides intended for a single preschooler. I could hear gears grinding as it slowly lurched forward. Unless that painted steel horse was sentient, there would be no tears here.

A few days later, Jalen and Jeff were among the four A's players chosen to play in their division's all-star game. And, whaddaya know? One of the managers even invited me onboard to coach.

I savored every moment of that game and was unapologetically more "parent" than "personnel". Jalen went 1 for 3 at the plate and late in the game he was brought in to pitch to the best two hitters from the team that went on to win our division's championship. He struck out the first hitter and induced a pop-up to short on the second. 

 

Our season officially ended with a 12-12 tie. It's kind of a long story involving clutch hits, shaky defense, a late-inning comeback and a bunch of stuff that happened AFTER Jalen recorded the second out of the inning. It was a good game. It was an ugly game. It was a great way to end the season.

The LL Chronicles #19: Five Games, Ten Days & How to Give Up Twenty Runs

5 Little League games over next 10 days. Must track pitch counts lest I'm forced to keep promise to less talented players & let THEM pitch. -- From Twitter, May 12

Perhaps it wasn't worthy of a spread in Sports Illustrated, but I did have a strategy: use a three-man starting rotation with one of the two non-starters pitching in limited relief for the rest of the season. My son Jalen got the start on the mound and threw 49 pitches in our 16-10 win over the Cardinals. This made him unavailable for our next game just two days later, but it ensured that at least two of my three best pitchers would be available in every game down the stretch.

And, if George Will were indeed worthy of his journalistic accolades, he'd update Men at Work with a chapter about my decision to let our least-experienced, least-skilled player pitch the final inning on this day. To the layperson, it might've looked like I was preserving my superior pitchers. But, surely Will's poetic prose would paint a picture of a little boy -- who begged his manager all season for an appearance on the mound -- and his first opportunity to mop-up pitch at any level. 30 pitches...28 balls...2 strikes. If we hadn't hit the two hour, 30 minute time limit, that kid might still be trying to finish the inning.

"Could you play my son [who never listens, pays attention or catches baseballs] at 1B?" - Father of one of my players. Edited for clarity. -- From Twitter, May 14

Our team ran its undefeated streak to four games with a 7-5 win over the Braves. For me, the drama came before the first pitch. With just a handful of games left in the regular season, I knew which of my kids could handle the skill positions (infield, pitcher, catcher) and which kids couldn't (right field, left field). The child in question had been known to swing an imaginary lightsaber while playing the outfield and occasionally turned his back to the plate as the pitch was delivered. The only people more oblivious on a Little League baseball diamond are these guys.

I consulted m'man Smitty on the matter. He's a former high school football coach who occasionally faced irate parents with unreasonable expectations. When they asked why their kids weren't playing more, Smitty gave them his unvarnished opinion ("Your son is slow, he's weak and, if he plays, someone will get injured.") or invited the parents to come watch film with him to see for themselves. Preferring the passive-aggressive approach, I kept the possibility open by responding, "Well, let's see how he does at first base during pregame warm-ups." He...did not do well. He also screamed over to Jalen at shortstop, "Don't throw it so hard!" Come on, you guys. I was justified in not playing him, right?

RIGHT?!

Another Little League win tonight. Wife not happy. A parent told her, "They're playing better since your husband started yelling at them!" -- From Twitter, May 16

Look...I'm the last person to lazily apply the laws of cause and effect. I'm well aware that the infamous Bear Patrol Tax was NOT necessarily a bear deterrent. But, after my team's 17-11 win against the Pirates, we were 4-0-1 over our last five games -- which coincided with my pitch-perfect postgame promo to the team from five games ago. Before this game, some of the kids were half-assing it during infield practice. I threatened to make the entire team run laps -- for the first time all season -- if the kids didn't tighten it up with their gloves. As I returned from the dugout with another bucket of balls, I could see some of my players encouraging their two or three disinterested teammates. Or, maybe I caught the tail end of a kiddie code red. Either way, the rest of practice went off without a hitch...and my hands were clean, Lieutenant Kaffee.

5-game undefeated Little League streak ends. 20(!) runs allowed. Son (1+ IP, 6 R) helpfully pointed out everything everyone else did wrong. -- From Twitter, May 19

This season was my son's first experience pitching off the mound. His first few games went surprisingly well, as he showed good control and an ability to miss bats. As the hitters became acclimated to live pitching, they caught up to Jalen and he struggled for a stretch towards the end of the season. J did eventually pull it together for the playoffs, but he was occasionally obliterated along the way. The Padres' lineup included several buffalo-sized batters who salivated at the prospect of pitches that were anywhere around the plate. And, ironically, J's greatest pitching strength (consistently hitting the strike zone) is his biggest weakness.

In the second inning, Jalen faced the biggest and strongest kid in the division. He doubled to deep left field. The sound of the ball off his bat -- and the reaction of those who heard it -- was recently recreated at the command of Mother Nature. Ask Mrs. Bootleg, you guys. I'm not exaggerating. J's usually emotional when I relieve him after a bad performance. On this day, J was emotionless when I took the ball. His facial expression -- and probably his thoughts -- captured perfectly here.

Ugly Little League loss tonight. Highlights were my son's second home run of the season and his teammate who showed up without his uniform. -- From Twitter, May 21

There wasn't much to love about our regular season-ending 17-8 loss to the best team in our division. 45 minutes before game time, one of my players showed up in jeans, sneakers and a polo shirt. His mother insisted he "didn't have time" to change clothes and she asked if he could play without his uniform. I had to think fast. "Unless he's wearing a cup inside those jeans, he can't play", I responded. The quizzical look on her face foreshadowed her next question. "A cup?"

Hoo boy. "Never mind", I conceded. "But, he's going to need to be in uniform to play."

Jalen, meanwhile, had a slightly more eventful evening. Late in our game, he lined a hit over the first base bag and down the line for a double. I was coaching first base at the time. I watched the ball. I watched the bag. Fair. Yet, the umpire called it foul. One of my coaches later compared my reaction to the scene in Happy Gilmore in which Happy first shows self-restraint. My son's reaction? Much more like a Major Leaguer.

Oh, I'm exaggerating. When Jalen was called back, his squeaky "WHAT?!" elicited appreciative applause from the A's families who've eaten up my son's made-for-TV act all season. He then melodramatically stomped back to home plate as if he were being sent to his room without dessert. On the very next pitch, he smacked one into the left-centerfield gap. It was an easy double, but J made the turn for third. And, when the left fielder made a slow lollipop throw back to the infield, Jalen turned at third and came all the way home.

The A's finished the regular season with a record of 6-8-1. Believe it or not, this was good enough to secure the third seed in our division's postseason tournament. But, if we're cataloging improbable accomplishments, J has to come before A's. As he excitedly exclaimed after the final regular season standings and statistics were posted to our league's website, "I tied for most home runs in the division!"

Hard to believe I had to be talked into managing him.

The LL Chronicles #18: Assaulting Adolescent Umpires, Managerial Meltdowns & Jalen's First Home Run

Son struck out looking w/bases loaded to end today's game. Now, I know 2006 NLCS pain of ‪#Mets‬ fans. How long does it last? Couple of hours? -- From my Twitter feed, April 21

Hard to believe this was one of my most memorable moments of the season. It was nearly 90 degrees at game time and my Little League A's team didn't exactly come prepared to play. The kids were sloppy in the field and uninspired at the plate, but they'd trimmed the deficit to three runs entering the final inning. With the bases loaded and two outs, my son Jalen stepped to the plate. He'd previously relieved our starting pitcher and kept the club in the game, so the conclusion of this climactic sequence seemed preordained. Alas, Jalen went down on three pitches. Each one inside and off the plate. Each one looking. So, what made it memorable? Well, this montage of African-American entertainers who were actually relevant during the 1990s represents the expressions on my son's face when the umpire called strike one, strike two and... strike three.

You'd think I'd be ashamed of getting in face of 13-year-old umpire at Little League game, but you'd be wrong. Just like he was ALL NIGHT. -- From Twitter, April 26

Midway through our game against the Padres -- the best hitting team in the division -- my A's trailed, 6-4. And, with the game half over, the two adolescent umpires working the game decided to switch assignments. In the bottom of the 3rd inning, the home plate umpire began working the bases and the base umpire set up behind home plate. Initially, I hadn't picked up on the chicanery. But, after my first batter struck out looking at a forehead-high fastball, I realized what had happened. My kids spent the previous innings adjusting to one terrible strike zone and now had to recalibrate their bats for an even terrible-er one. It was the most egregious act of incompetent -- possibly corrupt -- sports officiating in at least 25 years.

After the Padres' pitcher struck out the side -- while throwing maybe two legitimate strikes the entire inning -- I (might've) stormed from the home dugout, (possibly) got in his face and (kinda-sorta) unloaded. In the interest of full disclosure, the following diatribe has NOT been corroborated by anyone except my two coaches and the opposing manager, so take it with a grain of salt:

"Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me with this strike zone?! The face is a strike now? Is that new? Because, if the face is a strike, I'll tell my kids to swing. WHERE is your strike zone?!"

I dialed it back a bit when I realized the poor kid appeared to have peed his pants at my "angry n' black" act. After all, the umpires are doing the best they can and -- even at this level -- the game moves a lot faster than you might think. I needed a more mature way to express my displeasure. After we lost, the umpires walked towards me without a word. They're paid $16 apiece per game and the home manager is responsible for handing out league-issued checks. I spent the next 20 minutes taking equipment from the field to my car...one piece at a time. "Coach?", one of the umpires eventually uttered, "My mom's waiting for me. Can I have my check, please?"

"When I'm finished.", I (perhaps) hissed. And, true to my word, I paid them when I finished. See? Mature.

Little League game today vs. undefeated, undisputed best team in division. Rehearsing my "let's just focus on having FUN!" pregame speech. -- From Twitter, April 28

During our first two games against the Rangers, we needed a pair of late-inning rallies -- in garbage time, against their 9th/10th best pitchers -- just to keep from losing by double-digits. On this day, we jumped on the Rangers for five runs in the first inning. Collectively, it was the best game of the season for our offense and by the end of the second inning, everyone was swinging the same bat. Our leadoff hitter borrowed Jalen's 28-inch, 15-ounce aluminum toothpick and after stroking a double, he excitedly christened it "rally bat" while standing on second base. Although, truth be told, it was only the second best "birth of a bat" fable from the past 20 years. We scored 13 runs while wielding "rally bat". The Rangers, however, scored 16 after [ironic pause] rallying for five runs in the top of the final inning. It was still FUN! Mostly.

After our best game of the season last Saturday, my Little League team played their worst game of the season tonight. SO hoarse from booing. -- From Twitter, May 3

A few days after our previous game, I treated the entire team to an hour at the batting cages. This was not an inexpensive excursion, but the kids had fun and it appeared we'd turned a significant corner in creating team camaraderie. Our chemistry experiment promptly exploded in a 17-5 loss to the Braves. After the game, several of the same kids who checked out around the second inning suddenly found their hustle as they raced over for postgame cupcakes. Coach Aaron had seen enough. I took the entire team out to right field... and this happened. Minus the profanity, obviously, but I did repeat several of Jim Leyland's talking points, including: "...if you don't want to be here..."; "...I don't wanna see it no more..." and "...I've had enough of this f****** s***..." Minus the profanity! MINUS!

Attention gamblers! My son's Little League team has lost four in a row & our two best pitchers are ineligible for today's game! -- From Twitter, May 5

And, somehow, we won 17-7. My starting pitcher hadn't pitched all year, but never surrendered the early lead provided by our offense. The kids had regained their immediate cupcake gratification privileges.

My son hit his first Little League home run tonight. In related news: if anyone wants to take an insufferable 8-year-old off my hands...

In other related news: "AIEEEEEE!" -- From Twitter, May 8

As luck would have it, after spending the season either in the dugout or coaching first base, I stationed myself in the third base coaches' box for our game against the Pirates. Jalen came to the plate with two runs in and two runners on in the bottom of the third inning. On the first pitch, he hit a line drive into left-centerfield that skidded across the patchy grass and took a knuckleball bounce away from the two outfielders chasing it. There were a few moments of miscommunication amongst the fielders as the ball rolled parallel to the outfield wall and it still hadn't been picked up as Jalen hit the bag at second and turned towards third. 

By now, the ball had rolled far enough for the rightfielder to make the play as I windmilled my left arm out of its socket and screamed "HOME! HOME! HOME!" As Jalen rounded third base, the look on his face shifted from his usual intense grimace to unbridled elation. He slid into home feet-first kicking up a hazy fog of dirt and chalk. Jalen popped up from the dust, turned back towards third base and asked, "Dad, did you see that?!" He didn't even give me a chance to answer, before he sprinted towards the dugout -- index fingers extended -- and performed an over-the-top monosyllabic celebration that I'm sure I've seen somewhere before.

Yes, Jalen. I saw it.

But, I think you already knew that.  

Baseball, Community and Home Run for Chelsea

Rancho Bernardo is a small community tucked neatly inside the top of San Diego.  The always-accurate Wikipedia refers to it as "...an upscale master-planned community in [San Diego's] northern hills...". 

For me and my family, it's just "home".

But, who can argue with an adjective like "upscale" when our neighborhood is home to a three-stars-on-Yelp Chinese buffet and a reputable business endorsed by Robin Leach?   

Depending on your source, Rancho Bernardo's population is around 40,000.  This represents roughly 3% of San Diego's 1.3 million sun-drenched denizens.  And, our region never seemed smaller than on February 25, 2010.

17-year-old Chelsea King -- a high school senior from nearby Poway High School -- went for a training run at Rancho Bernardo Community Park along its well-known, trees-and-brush-hidden trails.  Tragically, she never came home.  Her disappearance led to the formation of local search parties -- comprised of both her peers and complete strangers -- that organized just down the hill from my house.  Five agonizing days passed before her body was found.  The victim of a horrific sexual assault was murdered 1 1/2 miles from my front door. 

Rancho Bernardo Community Park is also home to our local Little League's ball fields.  Days after Chelsea King's body was found, the park hosted Little League's opening day ceremonies.  I have no doubt that organizers wrestled with how to respectfully pay tribute to Chelsea in front of hundreds of children -- some as young as five-years-old -- without creating a pre-pubescent panic.  I remember that the ceremony was understandably brief, but moving.  My son Jalen asked about the large "CK" initials that were drawn on the infield dirt, but my awkward response was lost on his ears amid calls of "Play ball!" 

Since then, I've spent an ungodly number of hours at that park.  I've watched Jalen attempt to field everyone else's position in t-ball.  I coached him when he moved up to hitting off of the pitching machine.  I managed him in this, his first year of live pitching. 

Rancho Bernardo's Little League is a community all its own.  This is why I wasn't surprised to receive a text message from my son's Fall 2010 coach.  We regularly practiced together with our sons -- and several other fathers and sons -- on whichever open field could accommodate us on hastily-selected Sunday mornings or holiday afternoons or early December evenings.  J's old coach asked if he'd be interested in playing in a charity tournament. 

Last month, the second annual Home Run for Chelsea event was held at ball fields across San Diego County benefitting the Chelsea's Light Foundation.  Jalen reluctantly donned the uniform of the Cleveland Indians' short-season single-A minor league affiliate -- the Scrappers.  As his coach wryly remarked, "It's a good name for a kids' team."  Without missing a beat, Jalen replied, "Yeah, but, so is Rivercats!  And, RockHounds!"  (You'd have to be well-versed on the Oakland Athletics' minor league teams to get that.  It's probably best if you just move on to the next paragraph.) 

The tournament officials farmed us out to Encinitas -- a coastal community that sits about 25 miles northwest of Rancho Bernardo.  There was some grumbling from the adults -- naturally -- but, I thought it'd be fun to play on a different field and Jalen was excited about the prospect of a real "road game". 

For the first time in what seemed like forever, I wouldn't be coaching my son.  I hadn't been just a spectator at one of Jalen's games since Mrs. Bootleg literally banned me from watching from the same side of the field as her.  According to my wife, I'm too obnoxious, too intense and occasionally try to coach my son from the stands.  Pfft...balderdash.  Besides, if Jalen would just LISTEN TO ME... 

Seated down the third base line, my wife and I watched Jalen warm up with his teammates.  This was the only uncomfortable part of the event for me.  It was all I could do to stop from grabbing my glove (which I smuggled inside Jalen's bat bag), run onto the field and warm up my son.  Part of me was hoping that he'd see my glove in his bag and ask, on his own, for a little catch with his old man.  And, then, maybe the manager would say, "Hey, Aaron...we need someone to coach first base. You interested?"  Clearly, my evil scheming and nefarious planning need polish. 

Before the 9:00 AM games began, the mother of Chelsea King gave a short speech in front of the gathered players and parents.  I didn't really need such a nudge on what was already an emotional morning, but her words pushed my tear ducts past their natural capacity.  It was Mrs. Bootleg keeping the stiff upper lip for the family and her "Oh, here we go..." roll of the eyes at the sight of my tears was, admittedly, magnificent. 

Jalen's team played two games that day.  The first was against a travel ball squad that was clearly the stiffest competition any of our kids had faced to date.  J struck out in his first two at bats on letter high fastballs that I doubt he saw.  Jalen pitched the fifth inning, tasked with protecting a 3-2 lead.  Unfortunately, J's appearance was right in the middle of his worst Little League pitching stretch of the season.  He walked five and gave up four runs in just 2/3 of an inning -- the two outs recorded on a spectacular diving catch by the shortstop and a baserunner who crashed into the same shortstop just as he was fielding another ball.  My son had as much success fighting back tears as I did earlier in the day. 

In the sixth and final inning, though, the Scrappers (ugh) rallied and Jalen drove in the tying run.  With the two-hour time limit reached, the game finished in a 6-6 tie.  The second game followed 15 minutes later.  It was mostly an unwatchable slog of ball four-after-ball four between two tired teams with a discernible difference in ability.  The Scrappers won 18-8 and Jalen is still talking about his bases-clearing three-run triple in the first inning. 

I didn't spend much time with Mrs. Bootleg during either game.  When I'm managing my son, I'm a tightly-wound, mocha brown bundle of nerves who receives repeated reprimands from the umpire to quit pacing and stay inside the first base coach's box.  It's hard to sit still while rooting for Jalen.  It's surprisingly harder to sit still when you're rooting for a community.

TBG Eats: Cafasso Meatball Company

Current Weight: 168.0 lbs.

Some of you might've heard that I manage my eight-year-old son's Little League team. Two weeks ago -- after our squad gave up 20 runs in a humiliating mutilation at the hands of the Padres -- my wife approached me with a proposal for postgame dinner plans. Her timing, as always, was impeccable.

Our team's five-game undefeated streak had been snapped slaughtered. I'd just completed a half-hearted pep talk to the team in which we collectively marveled at the symmetry of surrendering five runs in each of the first four innings. In the dugout, my son and I were the only survivors in a sea of strewn sunflower seed exoskeletons and empty sports drink recyclables. (And, our conversation wasn't doing much for my mood.)

Eating out as a family? Why that's a much better idea than my preferred after-a-loss locale -- sitting in front of our open garage door, sipping pity beer while plotting lineup-demotion punishments for a few individual players.

Mrs. Bootleg suggested a restaurant called Cafasso Meatball Company. According to their website, "CMC" was established in June 2011. It's in the Carmel Mountain section of San Diego -- ten minutes south of Stately Bootleg Manor and an awfully pretentious appellation for a neighborhood that's dissected by strip malls, chain restaurants and big box stores. (To be fair, the homes are spectacular. I'm partial to the ones that abut BevMo.)

We arrived just after 6:00 PM. The restaurant was empty, which made me feel slightly less self-conscious about the three-and-a-half hours of "outdoors-on-an-80-degree-day" that my son and I were conspicuously smuggling under our clothes. CMC's menu is posted over the front counter on three flat screens. It's a neat little high-tech touch, I suppose, but as a newcomer, I felt a bit rushed with the cashier standing at the ready.

My wife ordered spaghetti (with two meatballs) because she ALWAYS orders spaghetti at restaurants that are even tangentially Italian. My son ordered pizza because he ALWAYS orders pizza at restaurants that sell pizza. I ordered the "CMC Special" -- choice of three meatballs, sauce, cheese and garlic bread -- because I (occasionally) blog about things and the name of the meal is begging for an "Oh, yeah? We'll see about that!" anonymous response.

I went with two of the beef and bacon meatballs and one spicy beef and pork. The simple, but appealing presentation was appreciated. I'm sure someone from the five boroughs could lecture us all on meatball protocol, but the look of the three meat spheres in a miniature serving dish -- topped with dollops of sauce and perfectly-placed provolone -- raised my expectations. Unfortunately, the food fell short.

The beef and bacon meatballs appeared to be overcooked -- a darkened exterior giving way to surprisingly dry meat on the inside. The only bacon characteristic I could find was a pervasive saltiness. The spicy beef and pork meatball was the better of the two, but the spiciness wasn't especially pronounced and the pork didn't contribute anything either texturally or in flavor.

The sauce at CMC was solid, though. The meat sauce outshined the meatball stars on the marquee and went great with the gloriously oily garlic bread.

CMC's interior appears to be a kitschy tribute to Sal's Famous Pizzeria from Do the Right Thing fame. Portraits of legendary Italian-American entertainers hang from the walls and the respective restrooms are labeled with "WISEGUYS" for him and "STARLETS" for her. The service at CMC was plenty friendly and their story -- which I just learned myself from the above link -- is interesting enough for me to come back and give them another chance.

If only the patrons at Sal's Famous had been so forgiving.

The LL Chronicles #17: The Worst Game Ever Played...and Won

Learned one of my players won't be at game today. He's performing at "Melody Makers" youth concert. I...should keep this from his teammates. -- From my Twitter feed, April 18.

Going into our game against the Cardinals, my Athletics were actually down three players.  Two of the three were Jason and Gautham -- who you might remember from the base stealing drill section in my last Little League post.  I may (or may not) have sent a celebratory text message to Mrs. Bootleg after hearing the news.  Unfortunately, there's no time to check my cell phone to confirm (or deny).

Top of the First Inning

My eight-year-old son Jalen was our starting pitcher and -- surely, to the surprise of none of you -- he takes this responsibility seriously.  The first batter for the Cardinals was a little boy named Joseph.  He just so happens to be one of Jalen's classmates.  As he approached the plate, Joseph waved out to the mound and exclaimed, "Hi, Jalen!"  The silent response he received from my son was akin to this.  I doubt Joseph had seen this side of Jalen during show-and-tell.  Three pitches later, Joseph had struck out swinging as Jalen punctuated the punch-out with a sudden, disdainful turn of his back to the vanquished batter.

The Cardinals' second batter witnessed the previous sequence from the on-deck circle and immediately burst into tears, refusing to come to the plate.  I initially assumed Jalen had actually intimidated someone, but as the game wore on, it became clear that this child cried before every at-bat and had to be practically dragged to the batter's box.  Knowing my son, the thought crossed my mind to run out to the mound and instruct Jalen NOT to throw a brushback pitch. Thankfully, the batter grounded out to shortstop on the first pitch.

Jalen got cuffed around by the 3-4-5 hitters, surrendering a single, a walk and a two-run knock.  But, his second baseman made a nifty diving stop on a groundball to stop the bleeding.  Cardinals 2, Athletics 0

Bottom of the First Inning

After our last game, I was told that my best hitter may have broken his finger.  It turns out it was only sprained and after a rainout the previous Saturday, he'd had more than a week to rest.  I don't want to imply that our roster couldn't withstand the loss of its most important offensive component -- at least not without referencing what happened to a team far greater than ours that lost its most offensive component.

My leadoff hitter singled and Jalen followed with a walk.  After a wild pitch moved both runners into scoring position, we tied the score on a pair of groundouts.  My team has gone through odd offensive droughts at inopportune times all season.  We needed a shutdown inning on the mound from my son so that our batters could build a little breathing room and...hey, where's that ominous music coming from?  Athletics 2, Cardinals 2

Top of the Second Inning

Jalen is back on the mound and bookends a pair of walks with a pair of strikeouts.  There are strict pitch count rules in Little League and two of those statutes were quickly becoming an issue.  As an eight-year-old, Jalen isn't allowed to throw more than 50 pitches in a game (unless he goes over during an at-bat to the last batter he'll face) and if he throws more than 50 pitches, the league mandates three calendar days of rest before he can pitch again -- making him unavailable for our next game.

On his 47th pitch, Jalen issues his third walk of the inning.  As I make my way to the mound, I'm unsure of who I want to bring in.  We just need one more out to escape the inning and with a potential force play at any base, I choose Jalen's teammate Kengo.  This would be his first pitching appearance since his reluctant relief role last month.  That inning left him in a catatonic state for the remainder of the game.  Looking back, I should've took Jalen's skeptical "Kengo?!" response more seriously.

As Kengo warmed up, I realized I f****d up.  The umpire had moved to the far right end of the backstop to drink from a bottle of water.  Kengo hit him with his first warm-up pitch.  The next few pitches were similarly nowhere near the vicinity of home plate.  When he finally threw a borderline strike, I attempted to make both of us feel better about my decision:

Me: "Kengo!  There you go!  Just like that!  Kengo! Pitchin' machine!"
Jalen [from second base]: "REALLY, dad?"

Me: "..."

(And, yes, I did shamelessly lift pep talk from Moneyball as my inspiration.)

The good news?  Kengo only needed 13 pitches to get out of the inning.  The bad news?  He used up his pitches on an RBI single, a 2-RBI single and a 2-RBI double.  At least he threw strikes.  And, fortunately, he had a supportive group of teammates who would put aside their own interests to console one of their own.  "Dad", Jalen said. "I think all of my runs should be charged to Kengo."  Cardinals 7, Athletics 2

Bottom of the Second Inning

The Cardinals were the last winless team in our division, but I resisted the urge to use that as a rallying cry for my kids.  Instead, I opted to incredulously mutter it to myself, repeatedly, with my arms folded and an occasional shake of my head.  If one of my players -- with their inquisitive little minds -- had asked what I was saying, it would've been impolite to stay silent, right?

With one out and runners on first and second, Jalen stepped to the plate.  My son tends to put too much pressure on himself in clutch situations.  From the first base coach's box, I shouted encouragement while concurrently worrying about a blown opportunity if we failed to dig into the Cardinals' lead.

On the first pitch he saw, Jalen lined a double to the opposite field.  The ball alternately seemed to hang in the air forever, yet it was low enough to the ground for me to see it pass right under my nose.  When it hit the chalk, Coach Aaron -- for some reason -- chased the ball down the line...and lost his mind:

"FAIR BALL! FAIR BALL! FAIR BALL! GO TWO! GO TWO! GO TWO!"

I'm screaming this while literally running into short right field.  When I turn back towards first base, Jalen is already kicking up dust with a slide into second.  My hysterics reminded me of a skit from Chris Rock's old HBO show.  (Fast forward to the 0:49 mark. Also, NSFW! NSFW! NSFW!)  One out later, Kengo(!) brought home our second and third runs of the innings with a double of his own.  Cardinals 7, Athletics 5

Top of the Third Inning

Garrett had been one of our better pitchers all season long, so I brought him in to start the inning.  It usually doesn't take long to tell which version of Garrett we're going to get.  There's "effective, pitch-efficient Garrett" and "ineffective, throws-a-million pitches Garrett".  I'll let the reader decipher the data based on the result of each opposing at-bat that evening: walk, single, walk, strikeout!, strikeout!!  We're not done!  Double, single, single, single.  Hang on...I have to move to the top of the next column in my scorebook since the Cardinals just batted around. Walk, single (runner out trying to stretch it to a double).  36 pitches.  OK, now guess which Garrett we got?  Cardinals 12, Athletics 5

Bottom of the Third Inning

Remember the kid who cried before every at-bat?  He's now in to pitch for the Cardinals.  Tonight's second-inning Kengo adventure notwithstanding, I've pretty much used the same three pitchers all season.  It seems like we're either playing from behind or holding the slimmest of leads in all of our games.  I'd love to be playing with a large enough margin to give my less-talented kids the experience of pitching.  And, as a bonus, it can be TOTALLY demoralizing to the manager of the losing team as he comes to the realization that...HEY!  This is demoralizing to me! 

My spirits were somewhat lifted after our team scored five runs on two hits and SIX walks.  (I needed a snarky sentence to end this paragraph and I couldn't decide between "Maybe the Cardinals should've kept their mop-up man in the bucket." or "It looks like the Cardinals' mop-up man was all wet."  They're equally awful.  Let's go with both.)  Cardinals 12, Athletics 10

Top of the Fourth Inning

I needed Garrett to throw another inning.  He's nine-years-old, so his pitch limit is 75.  He started strong with a strikeout, but then allowed three walks, two hits and two runs after that.  Garrett struck out the final two batters, but as my team left the field, I realized I'd forgotten to keep track of Garrett's pitches. 

Managers can get in serious trouble for violating the pitch count rules.  I approached the official scorer and with honest humility said, "Hey, I need to verify something on my scorecard. Can I borrow the scorebook?"  Since it's written in pencil, the data inside would be easy to era...er, verify.  Amazingly, Garrett threw exactly 40 pitches in the inning.  (No, seriously.  That's what was in the book before it was handed to me.  Really. I'm not being "cute" here.) He passed 75 while pitching to his last batter.  Acceptable!  Cardinals 14, Athletics 10

Bottom of the Fourth Inning

"No new after two."  That's the league catchphrase for the following rule at the 8 to 10-year-old level: no new inning may begin after two hours.  It's just after 7:00 PM, so this will be the last half-inning played today.  The lights on our field haven't worked all season, so we're basically playing until we make three outs or score five runs or the sun goes down.

The Cardinals bring in a boy named Prentice and he's built like a bipedal bull elephant.  His warm-up pitches produce the loudest pops of the night into the catcher's mitt.  Austin, my last-place hitter, is up to start the inning.  On his first swing, Austin is nearly 15 minutes late on the fastball.  On his second swing, Austin again misses the ball by a mile and...is awarded first base?!  Catcher's interference!  It's really a thing, non-baseball fans!

Unfortunately, the catcher -- who was hit in the hand by the batter's swing -- is splayed across home plate in tears.  I don't doubt for a second that this kid was legitimately hurt.  I also don't doubt that the Cardinals used this as an opportunity to...  OK, I won't go there.  But, after tending to the catcher's hand forever, the Cardinals announced they'd be replacing him behind the plate -- meticulously taking off each piece of his gear as if it were made of glass.  After the replacement catcher was suited up -- MIRACULOUSLY -- the original catcher was all better, so the Cardinals s-l-o-w-l-y switched out the catcher's equipment back to the first kid.  This sucked up a lot of remaining sunlight.

I'm not sure how this all played with Prentice's emotions, but he proceeded to walk the next four batters and most of the pitches weren't even close.  After an especially ferocious strikeout pitch -- that essentially disintegrated my littlest hitter -- Prentice walked two more, the last of which brought home the tying run.

Both teams are playing in twilight and the Cardinals' coaches could've made a reasonable case for stopping play out of respect for the safety of the players.  Our team has batted around as Austin is at the plate once again.  He works the count full and takes ball four on a pitch that sails over the umpire's head.  Athletics 15, Cardinals 14 -- FINAL

I'm a little embarrassed at my team's excessive celebration.  I'm a little relieved that we pulled this one out.  And, I'm feeling a LOT of compassion for the Cardinals players -- several of whom were openly excited at the prospect of their first win a few innings earlier.  This was one of those weird games that I'll always remember...even while hoping half the participants quickly forget it.

Last night, my son's Little League team scored 15 runs on 5 hits & 18 walks. Proud to play our part in killing off the national pastime! -- From Twitter, April 19.

The LL Chronicles #16: Winning, Losing & Other Big Organic Globules

Wife unhappy w/my explanation to my son on why he's not my starting pitcher in Little League tonight: "Your ERA is 24.00 vs. these guys." -- From my Twitter feed, March 29.

The Braves were our opponents on this evening and in the two games he's pitched against them, my eight-year-old son Jalen had allowed eight runs in just three innings of work. Now, I know some of you are rolling your eyes and wondering who in the world keeps stats at a Little League level for kids eight-to-ten-years-old. (And, to you I say: welcome, new readers!) But, the lone benefit to my son's hyper-competitiveness is that he GETS the game's fun-siphoning, inelastic statistical side. Here's how Jalen responded to Mrs. Bootleg's terse consternation: "No, Mom. Dad's right. 24.00 IS pretty high." Oh, don't look at me like that. It IS pretty high.

Without the pressure of starting pitching, Jalen was able to focus his early in-game attention on offense. Almost one month into the season and he still hadn't recorded a stolen base. Next to pitching, this was the aspect of playing in a higher division that Jalen was most excited about. After reaching base in the first inning, Jalen took an awkward, would-be Rickey-lead from the bag. He was trying to do this. But, he ended up looking like this. And, for some reason, he refused to take his eyes off the pitcher.
Me: [Between pitches, coaching at first base.] "Why are you staring at the pitcher, J?"

Jalen: [Still staring at pitcher.] "I'm trying to read the pitcher so I know when to steal."

Me: "You can't steal until the ball crosses home plate. There's no point in 'reading the pitcher'."

Jalen: "So...who should I read?"

Me: "..."







It was my first time coaching the bases this season and it didn't take me long to realize how much I missed these conversations with my son. We're still in the first inning. Jalen's still at first base.
Me: "Steal on the pitch after this."

Jalen: "Can I give myself the green light and steal after THIS pitch."

Me: "No."

Jalen: "But, I can make it!"

Me: "J, it's a 3-0 count. Let's see if the pitcher can throw a..."

Jalen: [Takes off for second base. Advances to third base on an overthrow.]

Me: "YEAH! ATT'A BOY, J!"

Coaching!

Son pitched in Little League tonight. 3 batters faced, 3 walks. He's seen "Major League", so he appreciated my "ball 4...ball 8" taunting. -- From Twitter, March 29.

Our team took an 11-6 lead into the final inning. It seemed like a large enough cushion and after two hours of glacially-paced baseball, most of the kids were looking ahead to postgame junk food and high-fructose faux-fruit fluids. So...I gave Jalen the ball -- with instructions to take his time and not overthrow. As I learned while standing next to him at first base a few innings earlier, Jalen wasn't in much of a listening mood. After four straight balls to the first batter -- and increasingly guttural grunts during each pitch -- I went out to the mound for a one-on-one with my son.

Eight pitches later, Jalen had walked the bases loaded.

This wasn't one of my finest moments as a father. As I stomped back out towards the mound to remove Jalen from the game, I felt more exasperation than empathy. Despite the fact that he's the youngest player on the team, Jalen is probably our best pitcher. As I stuck my hand out for the ball, Jalen looked up while mightily fighting back tears and said simply, "I didn't pitch the way that I wanted."

This also wasn't one of my finest moments as a coach. I replaced Jalen with a player named Justin who'd only pitched in one other game all season. Thanks to an interminable series of walks, hits, errors and altogether unwatchable baseball, we surrendered five runs in the inning, but held on for an 11-10 win. Justin practically collapsed in an emotional heap as he walked off the mound and I felt just as terrible for leaving him in to get pounded as I did for yanking Jalen mid-inning.

I made a point of apologizing to both of them after the game, but the parents of one of my players had sprung for postgame pizza. My contrition was lost beneath a circular sea of cheap cheese and victory.

Yesterday at baseball practice, one kid wouldn't do sliding drill. ("I don't like to get dirty.") Too young for me to order a "code red"? -- From Twitter, April 5.

During our win against the Braves, one of my players was thrown out on an attempt to steal second base. This is to say, he ran halfway to second base before inexplicably stopping to watch the catcher's throw and then was tagged out by the shortstop who casually walked about 30 feet to meet my player -- who still hadn't moved -- on the base path.

During our sliding drill, the only messages I attempted to impart were: don't worry about form -- just get low and get dirty. There are 11 kids on my team. Most of them either picked up the proper age-appropriate technique pretty quickly or had already been sliding into every damn base since tee ball (guess who?). Two of my kids, however, needed a wee bit more instruction.

Jason lined up with the other players at first base before begging out. As you might remember, he doesn't like to get dirty. Gautham, on the other hand, might've been better off using a similar excuse. He's one of those kids whose talent is lapped by his enthusiasm.

And, speaking of running...here's a Major League Baseball replica of what I'm working with. During our drill, Gautham began what I'll politely call a "gingerly slog" towards the vicinity of second base. Eventually, he came to a complete stop and simply fell on top of the bag. The dropping of my jaw was in perfect sync with the dropping of his entire body. Curiously, in certain circles, his technique could be considered quite electrifying.

Little League tomorrow vs. best team in division. My pitcher is playing 1st game after missing 6 weeks w/broken arm. This should end well. -- From Twitter, April 9.

Seeking to avenge our 11-4 loss to the Rangers earlier in the season, I sent a new pitcher to the mound. Austin had broken his arm back in mid-February and his cast came off at the end of March. In his first practice back with the team, he flashed a surprisingly strong arm. Not THIS strong, mind you, but I've been waiting eight weeks to work that reference in here. As a bonus, Austin hadn't yet let the Rangers get inside his head -- unlike the rest of my pitchers.

After the top of the first mercifully ended, Austin had surrendered five runs. Welcome to the psych ward, son.

Sadly, no storybook ending tonight. Although, watching 8-year-old Jalen bark at the 13-year-old home plate umpire was GOLD. -- From Twitter, April 10.

I've railed against the umpiring in our Little League division all season and the race continues to see whether father or son is the first one ejected from a game. On this night, the matchbook-sized strike zone gave both teams fits. Jalen took the initial squeezing silently -- if not sportingly -- by extending both arms, scowling down at the umpire from the top of the mound and shaking his head in condescending disgust. After a few more tight "ball" calls, Jalen mixed in a squeaky "Come ON!" and "That was a STRIKE!"

I pulled Jalen from the game with a half-hearted lecture on respecting the umpire's authority and adjusting to whatever strike zone he's calling that day. Of course, Jalen responded just loud enough..."But, before, YOU said the umpire was terrible, Dad!"

Despite 14-8 Little League loss, I should get credit for my head not exploding when my baserunner walked off base to pick up a live ball.. -- From Twitter, April 10.

Coach Aaron is STILL recovering from this game. On an overthrow from the opposing catcher back to the pitcher, my baserunner strolled off of second base to pick up the ball. We'd plated three runs in the inning, but he became the third out. On top of that, the ongoing horseplay in our dugout belied the results on the scoreboard. Midway through this massacre, I might've gathered the team together and reenacted several parts of this recent movie scene. I will, of course, deny it if pressured by Child Protective Services.

The proverbial last straw came towards the end of the game when one of our players was beaned in the helmet by an errant pitch. His teammates rose to his defense from the dugout. At the Major League level, this might be considered admirable. But, from children? 

"You're next!"

"We're going to remember this!"

"You better not be batting next inning!"

Ugh. We had a l-o-n-g team meeting after the game to address this nonsense. 

Just learned that my Little League team's best hitter may have broken his finger. My eight-year-old son's reaction: "We're doomed." -- From Twitter, April 11.

NOOOOO!