Dainbramage

Tee Ball III 'My first groin pull'

Hi everyone.

I hope you had a good holiday.  I did. 

Tonight's practice had a new wrinkle.  We scrimmaged.  It is important before we move forward that you remove all preconceptions you might have regarding the word scrimmage and the rules generally associated with baseball and its derivatives.  Instead, try to think of a scrimmage as an opportunity for even more 3 -  5 year olds to run amok and parents to shake their heads.  Scrimmage = Entropy Actualized.

The basic rules are as follows.  Every kid on each team bats once per inning.  When he hits the ball he runs to first base.  When the next boy hits the ball, the runner on first runs to second.   The defense valiantly attempts to field the ball and throw it to first base.  As their are no actual outs, this defensive move is repeated ad nausium regardless of the number of base runners.  This is apparent to observers after they hear,'Throw it to first,' repeated for the six hundred and ninth time during the second inning.  (We are teaching fundamentals here, its not about competition.)

I took up the challenge and offered to coach first base.  Here is a brief description of my responsibilities.

Meet the bewildered first baseman from the other team.  This generally involved a brief description of his role in the coming melee.  I explained his basic responsibilities were to catch the ball in the air if he could, field any grounders hit to him and step on the base prior to the batter touching the base and stand on the base and catch any throws from teammates should the ball be hit to them.  My explanation was apparently flawed in almost every way as none of my instructions were ever successfully completed.  If I had the opportunity to work with only one kid during the course of the game, I truly believe my concepts would have built upon each other for his benefit.  However, the opposing coach sent a new wide eyed little urchin my way each inning. 

Encourage the batter to run to the base after hitting the ball.  This involved me punctuating each shout of 'HERE!' with frazzled point at the orange rubber mat serving as first base.  I count this my greatest success of the evening as most of the kids actually made it to the base in less than thirty seconds.  This is not to say the players on the Grey Team are not superior athletes blessed with blazing speed.  It is the chosen route that requires improvement.  The primary impediment involves the inability to select a spot in which to place the bat.  Imagine four year olds who have manage to lose fire trucks in every room of their house standing still halfway down the baseline scratching their heads as they mull each blade of grass as a suitable repository for their plastic weapon.

Explain to the first base runner his next assignment.  When the next batter hits the ball you need to run as fast as you can to second base.  My early mistake was failing to ask if the scantest knowledge as to the location of second base existed.  I quickly corrected this but without any impact.  We finally resorted to the rarely used Second Base Coach whose responsibility was to stand near second base and scream,'Here!'!' while pointing at the rubber mat at his feet.  I am hopeful that I did this in a more refined manner as one time I stole a look at him and I could see the bulging cords on his neck through the spray of spittle.

I am embarrassed to admit that twice during this activity, the base runner ran into the field to battle for the ball. The first baseman, having listened to my fevered instructions and knowing how imperative it was that someone run to second base, took it upon himself to do so.  Parents on both teams were outraged by this and began huddling together.  I could not hear the words but the pointing and stares left no doubt that I would soon be pulled. 

Then it was time for my boy to step to the plate.  We have been working on hitting and I was excited to see the fruits of our labor.  We were not disappointed - a line drive single in the five six hole.  Just as I turned to give him the thumbs up, I saw it happen.  He stumbled and came up limping bad.  Tears filled his eyes as looked up at me, "I hurt myself Dad."   

'Where does it hurt dude?"

'Right here Dad," he sobbed as he gestured to his crotch.   AAYYIIIII!  Groin pull.  Those who've had-em need no explanation.  No explanation will work for those who haven't.  He still limped as fast as his little legs would allow down to second base with the next hit.  I was one proud pappy. 

I was about to pull him from the game when it fortunately ended.  A dirt with worms from Sheridan's custard made everything better again.  I kissed him and he told me he was going to dream about fireworks and lightening bugs.   

Much love to everyone who is reading.  I hope you dream about fireworks and lightening bugs. 

Tee Ball II 'The heat is on'

The second TBall practice has come and gone.  If there is a practice in the universe farther from the first one, I want to see it.  Gone was the running and piling.  Missing was the laughter.  Absent enthusiasm was. (This is Yoda type)

In place of those energy laden lads stood idle totems that glowed an unhealthy red in the afternoon sun.  The only signs of life were the parched beggings, "Water Break?" voiced in the whine that only a four-year practitioner can produce.   Individually this kind of whine can break bones but when voiced in unison, it destroys the mind.

Water breaks abounded of course.  We lied to ourselves that it was to keep those little guys hydrated but deep down we knew it was sanity maintenance.  Then we learned that the cry for water was only a diversion.  Not one of the kids had any desire to be there at all.  We discovered this, as one by one each boy would simply run off the field to his mother or father and quaver," III donnn'ttt ffeelll gggoooodddd. I wwaaannnaaa gooooo hoommme."

Being stupid and knowing that sticktooittiveness (I might be the first to use that one!) is very important, the adults went into motivational overdrive.  It started as the standard list of cliches about practice, working, and staying until the end.  These are the same phrases that when voiced at work induce each of us to fantasies of beating our bosses with a pitchfork.  The predictable failure of this insane approach required us to get out of our lawn chairs and inspire our boys by standing with them in the field.  Our hope was that close proximity would keep the other parents from hearing our whispers, "only fifteen more minutes left, then we can go home." Standing beside them had the added benefit of being able to see their eyes roll back into their heads as they succumbed to heat exhaustion.

I would like to report that some of these tactics were successful but that would be a complete lie.  Instead, every single mother and father on the field went to the final resort-defcon 4- the mouthing of absurd promises.  Here is a sampling of what I heard. 

If you hit the ball three more times we will go for ice cream.    Do you want to get a power ranger for your birthday?  Well we were going to go for tacos but if you can't act like a big boy.....     If you go back out to second base, we can go fishing this weekend!

So what did our boys learn?  That finishing something you start is important?  Practice makes perfect?  Hard work is its own reward?  Or that mom and dad are a couple of sadistic shits that enjoy frying my ass in the sun?  I fear that if the memory of this practice drifts through Aiden's mind while determining the quality of my retirement home, it would be best to start practicing the question,"Would you like that super-sized?" pretty darn soon.

Thanks to everyone who keeps reading. 

A final thought...the remaining prescription of power sedative has been awarded to my loving sister Melissa. 

Tee Ball

Hey everyone.  Sleep has arrived!  Woohoo.  I wish I could tell one of you it was delivered by one of your homeopathic remedies but....it came from Pfizer.   It is all good. 

I want to thank everyone who reached out regarding the drop-off in my musical taste earlier this week.  Thanks to everyone who volunteered to burn discs to rescue me from the hell I had sunken into.  I also want to acknowledge a few comments that came back.  Sean-you are correct, Rush shouldn't be grouped in with Styx and Boston, they are way above that class.  Kevin, even in the deepest depths of of my consciousness, Journey is not allowed.  In fact, if I ever slip into a coma, please play Journey songs until I wake up. (Please do not play them on anything of value to you as I will most certainly snatch it out of your hands and dash it on the wall.)  One last note for the deeply troubled- there were no Styx songs form the Mr Roboto era.  Even I have my limits.

Tuesday night was Aiden's first TBall practice and it was glorious.  We arrived to find out that he is on the GRAY team.  This means that they wear gray shirts.  Andrea and Amy and I all showed up so he had lots of support.  Within about five minutes I decide that Matt, the coach, deserves a salary in the six figure range. 

The first lesson involved naming and running the bases.  Each base was pointed out and assigned the proper numeric designation.  When coach thought that this information had been adequately digested, it was time to run the bases.  First base presented no big challenge.  About twenty gray shirts rumbled the correct direction although no one actually touched the base.  Matt herded them back to home plate and then instructed them to run to second base.  This is where the four year old mind took over.  A gaggle of gray shirts took off towards second base but they took the straight route.  The need to go by first base first was either forgotten or their beautiful little minds just decided that seemed a little out of the way.  The collected parents all giggled at the cuteness of it all until we realized that the kids failed to stop at the base and were now at full gallop some twenty yards out into the grass. We needed a water and potty break after this as most of the little guys returned desperately grasping their crotches in a vain effort to stem the tide. 

Now it was time for the real fun-hitting and fielding.  First batter steps to the plate and the rest of the team runs to random positions in the field to await the coming grounders and pop flies.   The batter whiffs on the first couple swings to the delight of all because the kids in the field are still valiantly attempting to put their new gloves on.  Painstaking attention is being given to insure that each tiny finger goes into the correct hole.  Complicating things is the disparity between the size of their hands and the leather monstrosities they hold.  When they are finally successful, they look at mom or dad and hold the glove up in the air requesting approval.  The boys look as if they are holding VW Bugs over their heads.  About half have the gloves on the correct hand.

Not to worry as coach is giving some pointers to the batter.  The little guy nods and steps up to the T with grim determination.  The swing is reminiscent of Mighty Casey.  The bat whiffs violently over the top of the ball and into the stomach of coach who is looking at a field full of kids looking at their parents.  The noise that leaves coach startles the batter who is suddenly terrified he has done something wrong.  Coach reassures him that he is OK and indicates he should take another swing.  This is all done with gestures as coach is not really breathing.

Finally the ball is struck and becomes a simple grounder up the middle.  One little guy gets in front of it and knocks it down so it is lying on the grass beneath him.  The boy nearest him runs to get the ball and in his exuberance performs one of the most perfectly executed tackles I have ever seen.  You can see the excitement building in the eyes of his teammates as they rush to try the same maneuver.  Before it is all over there is a heap of about fifteen four year olds battling each other for the ball.  Now that would get me to more pro ball games. Every ball hit into the field resulted in this violent melee.  None of the parents stopped it; it was just too damn fun.  I am sure that the coach would have stopped it but he was intensely focused on recurring inhalation.

Then it was over and all the players got a juice box and were happy.  So was I.