I am now into my second spring season as the head coach of a Little League baseball team. We are now in the ten-year-old league, light years away from the tee-ball we were playing just a few years ago.
There are eight teams in our division. We are 4-4 and tied for third place. It is the most competitive league I’ve ever been involved with. When we were 3-3, we were tied for second place. A loss dropped us back to sixth. A win Monday night vaulted us back into a tie for third.
We won our first game 10-1. It was the first time any spring baseball team I have coached or assistant coached won its first game. We lost the next game 12-5. It remains our only blowout defeat. We played horrible. It was a Murphy’s Law game for us. I wanted to line them up against the dugout wall and shoot them.
We lost our next game, too, 7-6, against the first place team. We then won 12-10, lost 5-2 in another Murphy’s Law game. That was the game I let them see me get angry. I never get angry with them. Sometimes I get frustrated, but never angry. We were in the field and just kicking the ball around, not seeming to care. So I called timeout, went into the infield, called them in, and applied some tough love. On the bright side, even as poorly as we played, we were still in that game until the end. It could have been another blowout. We won our next game 11-4, lost the next 6-5, and won Monday night 5-4 against the team that had previously beaten us 12-5. Through Monday night, we had scored more runs than any team in the league. Our guys can sure hit.
This is my sixth year to be involved in Little League. As the players get older, my role as head coach changes. I am less of a coach and more of a manager now. Some of our players literally need no coaching. Some need a little, some still need a lot. I feel like a psychologist now. The more advanced their skills become, the more mental the game.
(Some of these kids have also gone through some hard times at home. I generally know who they are, and try to be considerate of that when dealing with them on the field.)
In that 6-5 loss, my relief pitcher hit three batters. He throws hard, and getting hit by him is painful. They cry while limping down to first base. He’s a great baseball player. In fact, he ended up being my second-round pick. (I have 11 players on my team.) After his second inning on the mound was over and we came up to bat, he got on base and wound up on third, where I was coaching. He more or less asked me to put in someone else to pitch. I told him I wouldn’t make him go pitch if he didn’t want to.
I talked to his dad a couple of days later. He was so discouraged after the game that he told his dad he didn’t want to pitch anymore. Ever. So we concluded the best thing we could possibly do would be to put him on the mound the very next game. I usually tell a kid before the game if he’s going to be used in relief later on. But I didn’t do that this time. I started him at shortstop and let my starter throw the maximum number of pitches (75), then, by rule, I had to pull him. There were two outs in the fourth inning, and it was a tight game. I believe we were tied 3-3 at that point. I then sent my starter over to shortstop and called my formerly discouraged pitcher over to the mound. I had talked to him a little a couple of innings before when we had a few spare moments, but never alluded that he would pitch later that game. I told him I believed in him, and handed him the ball. He was lights out. He pitched the remaining 2 1/3 innings, and gave up only one run. We scored twice in the bottom of the fourth, and held on to win. I gave him the game ball. It was the biggest win of the year by far. I took them to Dairy Queen after that and bought them all ice cream.
One of my players has played on four teams of mine — both of my fall league teams, and my two spring teams. He’s always been a good hitter, good fielder, an excellent baserunner with a daredevil attitude, and he even started pitching some in the fall. But he’s having a tough spring. He can’t hit. He knows how to hit. I’ve seen him hit before. But he just can’t hit this spring. His parents have even started getting him private batting lessons in order to help straighten him out. He’s a good kid who loves to play baseball, and he has good, supportive parents. It breaks my heart to see him get discouraged.
The game before last, the one we lost 6-5, we were in the last inning. We had already scored three runs and the tying run was standing on third base with two outs. He came up to bat and struck out to end the game. Afterwards, he was crying.
His dad called me last night on his cell phone to tell me just how discouraged his son had become. He’s not hitting, not getting to pitch very much, and doesn’t like playing center field as much as he has been. We talked for several minutes, and I told him I’d talk to his son privately before the next game. But I couldn’t wait that long. So I picked up the phone a few minutes later and called him at home. We talked for a while. I told him he was going through a batting slump. He’s hit the ball before, and he’ll hit the ball again, but that he’s just going to have to play through this until the hits start falling again. Even major leaguers go through slumps.
Hitting is a strange thing. As Yogi Berra once said, 90% of hitting is half-mental. Hitting is all about hand-eye coordination and timing. It’s all in your head, and when the hits stop falling for a while, it messes with your head. It weighs on you like an elephant. And there’s only one way out of a batting slump — to keep on swinging.
Anyway, I assured my player that he’ll have the opportunity to pitch again. (I told his mother that we’ve had so many close games lately that I’ve had to rely on my more experienced pitchers to carry us. She understood.) And he plays a couple of innings in center field every game because I have to have someone in that position who can do three things well: catch fly balls, run fast, and make long, accurate throws. He was in center field during that 6-5 loss. It was the bottom of the 4th inning and we were already down 6-2. The bases were loaded and there were two outs. The batter hit a fly ball to center field, and he caught it for the third out. If he didn’t catch it, at least two runs would have scored, and the game would have been over for us right there. I reminded him of this during our conversation last night. I think he felt encouraged after our talk.
Then there is my first baseman, The Stoic. He was the highest rated player in our draft, and I snatched him up as my #1 pick. He’s a lefty who can pitch, but prefers first base. And when he isn’t pitching, he’s at first base every single inning. He’s very good in the field, but spectacular at the plate. He may be the best pure hitter I have ever coached, and there’s absolutely nothing I can tell him about hitting, because he knows as much as I do. So I leave him alone and let him do his thing. I call him The Stoic because he never gets overly-excited during a game, but also never gets down when things don’t go right.
I have a red-headed catcher I’ll call The Comedian. He’s the life of the party, a truly funny kid who is sort of the ringleader of the bunch. He loves baseball, and is a smart player. My #1 pitcher, for example, really gets down on himself when things don’t go well. Things usually do go well when he’s on the mound, but not always. The Comedian knows this. Just when I’m about to make a mound visit to calm him down, The Comedian already has his mask off and is trotting off to make the visit himself, so I stay put. I have no idea what they’re talking about, and don’t care. This is teamwork. The more hands-off I can be, the better. This is their game, not mine. I am content to let The Comedian run the show on the field for the moment. I’d rather them hear from a peer, anyway. It has more of an impact.
There are other players, too, of course. My other catcher is a good-natured kid who owns his own catching gear. My part-time second baseman, part-time center fielder is also a gymnast who can do back flips. He’s a fast, reckless baserunner who can hit. I have a kid who plays golf, has excellent hitting mechanics, can wear it out in practice, but cannot hit in an actual game for whatever reason. I can’t quite figure him out. He’s also a good kid with a kind and supportive father.
I also have a couple of twins who look exactly alike, and I have never learned to tell them apart. I always have to look on the back of their uniforms to tell who is who. They are a couple of the fastest runners in the league, and when they get on base, they can do some real damage.
And then there’s my kid. Right now he’s our #2 pitcher, who also plays second base, third base, and center field. He was also having difficulty hitting until the last couple of games, so I had to drop him in the lineup from #2 to #6, and now #5. He was mad at me, but I told him I also have ten others players to consider besides him, so he swallowed his pride and went out there and started hitting. We ended up having to consult his hitting coach, who made a couple of adjustments in his mechanics. Lo and behold, he’s 2-for-4 the last two games with three runs batted in.
So these are my 11 players. Eleven different personalities. Eleven sets of skills. Eleven different opinions. One coach who wants to shoot them sometimes, and buy them ice cream other times.