Little bleeps baseball

I knew a guy from church who coached Little League Baseball. His name was Kent and he was a Yankees fan.

Photo by Kenny Eliason

I knew a guy from church who coached Little League Baseball. His name was Kent and he was a Yankees fan.

As a twenty-something he didn’t feel overly qualified to coach Little League Baseball because Little League coaches tend to be wise older gentlemen who clearly understand that baseball and life are pretty similar. They’re able to share wisdom with 12-year olds without them noticing. But thankfully, Mr. Dave was the head coach and he was pretty wise (I will also note that Kent being a Yankees fan draws out serious questions about his character).

Kent had other reservations: the team he was coaching was the Red Sox. But Mr. Dave had been mentoring him at church and asked nicely.

“I won’t wear a Red Sox hat,” he’d insisted.

The first day of practice, Randall’s dad approached the coaches with his sunglasses tucked underneath an old hat. “The little (word that starts with s- and ends with -t but we will just go with bleep) left his glove at home.”

Anger flashed in Kent’s stomach. What kind of dad talks about his son that way? Randall was a good kid. A little short for Little League but a good second baseman with a pretty good bat who liked to run anywhere he went and had a flashy grin through his freckles. He’d smile at pitchers when he walked into the box. Swagger is funny in 12-year olds.

Kent decided right then and there that Randall was his favorite player on the team.

As baseball and the summers of our youth tend to do, the season slipped by quickly. Soon the greens in the trees were hinting at yellow and though the heat hadn’t relented, the grass had the smell of fall not far on the horizon.

The Red Sox had been above-average. Mr. Dave had found ways to teach about perseverance, courage and a whole lot of how to deal with failure. But given that there were only 4 teams in this league (thanks to the travel ball exodus plaguing the country) they found themselves playing the White Sox for the championship.

And that was when Mr. Dave and his family decided to go to their timeshare in Kissimmee. Kent was going to have to coach this one alone.

All season he’d taken the backseat to Mr. Dave except every now and then working with a pitcher or telling their best hitter, Markus Taylor, that “He could do it” when he cried after he struck out. And there was Randall who Kent made sure to remind that he was important to the team no matter what.

“You’ll do fine, bud” Mr. Dave said on the phone. “I sent you a text with the lineup. Pitch Henry as long as you can then probably Kyle and Mikey if you need him. The rest is just coaching ‘em up.”

“Yeah. But it’s the White Sox.”

“Yep. I know.” The White Sox had been the best team all season. “At least we’re the home team. Good luck, bud. I’m off to the water park.”

In the second inning, the game was tied and Markus Taylor had hit a single. Randall came to the plate and Kent gave him the sign to bunt. But he couldn’t get it down and eventually struck out.

The game went back-and-forth. Miraculously, the Red Sox found themselves tied in the bottom of the 6th with a runner on third and Markus Taylor up to bat with Randall on deck.

Kent felt guilt in his stomach. He knew he hoped Markus struck out so Randall could try to get the game-winning hit. Something in him thought the kid just needed it.

The White Sox coach signaled for an intentional walk sending Markus to first. Randall stepped up to the plate. But he wasn’t grinning at the pitcher.

On the first pitch, Randall squared around to bunt.

“Time out” Kent signaled to the home ump who gladly took the opportunity to grab a bite of his chili dog.

“Randall, come here,” Randall kicked the bat as he stared at his feet. “Dude, why are you bunting?”

“Because you wanted me to bunt earlier. I figured you wanted me to bunt again.”

“Why would I want that?”

“I don’t know,” Randall was kicking dirt and tapping the metal bat on his cleats making a “ping, ping” sound.

“Look at me, bud.” The words came to Kent without thought, “You know you’re the only person I would want at the plate right now?”

Randall looked up. “You wouldn’t want Markus?”

“Nope. Swing away, bud.”

Randall grinned. The next pitch he hit so hard at the first baseman that it shot off his glove and into right field. The runner scored easily.

“That’s it! Ball game!” the ump shouted signing his card and making for his second chili dog.

The entire team jumped around Randall as he sprinted through first base and ran all the way into the outfield grinning like he’d kissed a pretty girl.

Kent just smiled and shouted “I knew you could do it!” Mr. Dave said the same thing on the phone when Kent called him after the game.

“You’re pretty wise, bud, even for a Yankees fan.”