For absolutely no reason today I've been thinking about my experiences as a baseball coach. The only way to rid my mind of those long gone days of "giving back" to the game I loved, is to write a bit about them. In the process, I'm sure there will be a number of been-there-and-done-that souls who will relate.
I've coached and managed at all levels of male and female minor baseball and softball (peewee, bantam, midget, juvenile, junior, intermediate and senior) in two provinces. And do you want to know the truth?...I was uncomfortable with most of it!
Of course, an explanation is in order after that startling admission.
Following a playing career that took me to many far-flung sandlots in North America, the natural assumption seemed to be that I was pre-ordained to eventually take up coaching -- even umpiring for that matter. To me it was an evolutionary thing and I actually felt honored to be able to take that one last step in a field of dreams.
In retrospect, even though I persisted, I simply was not cut out for the responsibility of coaching a group of impressionable teenagers, let alone a team of adults closer to my age who felt beyond the need for bonafide coaching.
Bottom line, I was just too sensitive -- a softie even.
To begin, there was the distasteful spring ritual of narrowing a group of prospects down to a team ideally in the manageable range of 16 players...and that was perhaps one of the hardest chores for me, trying to tactfully tell someone that they were being "cut" from the list and that they would not be included in the final game roster.
The sadness and disappointment was always culpable in body language and I died a thousand deaths each time I was required to deliver the painful message. The memory of my own rejections and heartbreaks as a player in over his head competitively speaking, was still relatively fresh in my mind and to my own detriment.
I recall unfortunately procrastinating with one sincerely enthusiastic but limited-in-talent young fellow when it came time to handing out uniforms for the season. I had 18 uniforms to distribute and had already given out 17 of them, leaving the last one for me. I glanced over the group of players trying on their outfits and saw (we'll call him...) Jim hovering expectantly yet hesitatingly, in the background. I could no longer ignore him and spontaneously handed my uniform over to him without saying a word. Against my better judgement, our bench just gained another extra player for the duration of the season and I was left to scrounge up another mismatched uniform.
Jim proved to be one of the most dependable members of the team, never missing a practice or a game, and I made it a point to selectively get him in the lineup for an inning or two whenever I could. He was part of the team, which was all he wanted -- and he didn't hurt us in the least.
On every team there is bound to be two or three players who are a cut above the rest and shoe-ins to be regulars for every game. It is the coach's job to juggle the balance of the lineup with players based on previous game performance, fairness and intuitive hunches. While this fact of life is generally understood, there were always players who demonstrated dismay over being overlooked in the starting lineups, and would go so far as to voice displeasure. "If I'm not going to play, what is the sense of me coming out"? kind of attitude.
On one of my strong league champion intermediate teams I had the luxury of three very good catchers. Two were versatile enough to adequately play at other key positions and carry big bats. The third was an excellent receiver but struggled at the plate and was not particularly adept at playing other positions. Guess who complained the most about not playing some games and never seemed to be a happy camper, thereby making my my job all the more difficult.
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| Come on Dick, this is no laughing matter! |
On another occasion during a very tight game, I considered it expeditious to remove a strong willed 18-year-old starting pitcher in favor of bull pen relief. In spite of my reasoning and urging, he refused to leave the mound and insisted that he could still retire the side. Rather than create a scene, I caved and left him in the game. To his credit he managed to get himself out of the jam and finished the next three innings, coming out with a win to his credit. He understandably walked off the mound that night very proud of himself and I suppressed humiliation in not having stood my ground as coach.
There was also the time when I was coaching and managing both a midget baseball team and a juvenile fastball team in the same season. Due to illness and summer vacations I had only nine players for a juvenile game and found it necessary to call up one of my better midget players in order to have at least one substitute on the bench in case of injury. As it turned out, I was unable to work the young lad into the game but he was more than pleased just to be called up and to join older friends (including a brother) on the team. After the game, however, I was challenged to a fight by an older brother who was a hot shot Junior "A" hockey player, NHL prospect cum beverage room waiter, who thought that I was a b--- s--- coach for not giving his younger sibling a chance to play.
To turn the other cheek and walk away from that unfortunate confrontation witnessed by a good two dozen fans behind the bleachers, was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. It is times like that that take the fun out of the game and coaching in particular.
And then, God bless them, there were always other fans (family members and friends mostly) who likewise never seemed satisfied with decisions I made in the dressing room or in the heat of competition. Parents were often the worst with abusive comments about playing time afforded their little Johnny. It was always a struggle for me to rationalize the pitfalls and barbs of coaching which I generally took home with me and admittedly struggle with even to this day.
I'll never forget the time when I was a minor baseball peewee league convenor. Unplanned, I let coaches of the two divisional champion teams talk me into a winner-take-all saw-off game for which we had no official umpires. It was agreed that I would umpire the game myself from a position behind the pitcher's mound where I could call balls and strikes and cover the bases at the same time.
All went extremely well in a scoreless game until the final inning with two out and the bases loaded for the coin flip-winning home team. The next batter hit what should have been a game-winning single and his celebrating teammates mobbed him before he reached first base. I pretended not to see the infraction in the hope that the other team did not see it either and that the game would mercifully be over.
But no such thing...The opposing coach yelled at his second baseman to retrieve the ball and to go and touch first base, which he did and I heard myself simultaneously and emphatically calling "yer out!"
Needless to say, all hell broke loose and players threw stones at me as irate parents and coaches rushed onto the field insisting that the runner had in fact touched the base. I pinched myself to see if it was all a bad dream -- but it wasn't.
The game never resumed and I barely escaped with my life. Days later the alert opposing coach confided in me that he wasn't sure if the runner had actually touched the base but he thought that it was worth him calling me on it and he was surprised with my arbitrary response.
I can honestly say that I was in shock when I got home that afternoon, sobbing shamelessly and unable to get out of the car for a good half hour. I was disappointed in myself and unconsolable for letting a bunch of kids down and for being so stupid as to put myself in that compromising position in the first place just because I thought that I was doing the right thing by bowing to the wishes of both teams, against better judgement.
Even as I write this text I feel an ache in my chest that has never completely gone away. It never will!
And to think that I have gone this far with my story and I haven't even begun to relate flak coming my way from an unhappy spouse carrying associated family responsibility expectations, not to mention the expenditure of time and energy devoted to the off-field duties of coaching such as league and association meetings, assuring an adequate supply of equipment (including bats and balls for games), team transportation for away games and other administrative necessities (inevitably more often than not requiring personal out-of-pocket expenses).
I guess that in the end I was simply jinxed in a way and too intense, too caring, too sensitive to be a coach and that all combined got in the way of my enjoyment of the the game and pretense of good sportsmanship and ultimately, good citizenship.
I totally admire coaches today who are tough by nature with ability to let sensitivities like mine roll off their backs and to thrive on unexpected challenges. They are the ones cut out for the job that I fear I may have mishandled in thinking that I was making a contribution of some kind. I do not recall anyone ever saying "thanks" or "good job!" And that eventually told me something -- coaching is a thankless job!
It may be a mistake to mix minor sport coaching with adult coaching in a story of this nature, because they involve different temperaments requiring specific leadership approaches and skills. It is just that my experience covered the entire spectrum and that I attempted to be too many things for too many people and ended up second guessing my wisdom and what I thought I was standing for.
Youth coaches, whether in minors or any other extracurricular sport, are mentoring our children and giving them the tools to grow up to be responsible citizens. These coaches are doing far more than offering instructions on how to hit a baseball, shoot a puck or sink a basket. They are teaching their players valuable lessons about leadership, teamwork, effort and resilience. In the classroom, students that do everything right get 100 per cent on their test. On the playing field, athletes learn that you can do everything right and still lose. That's an essential life lesson that builds grit and will help them cope with the many challenges and disappointments they will face in later life.It's wonderful if your child is the star player on a winning team but in reality the enduring lessons come from the tough losses, whether that's on the scoreboard, not making the team at tryouts or sitting on the bench while better players shine, as deplorable as the prospect may be for misplaced guys like me.You might not even remember who they are when that day comes but they'll remember you and, most importantly, what you gave them.
That hot-shot hockey-playing, bar waiter older brother may have been right all along. I don't know.
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