Date: Fri 12-Jul-1996

Publication: Bee

Author: KIMH

Quick Words:

Column-Harmon-Little-League

Full Text:

Has Little League Become Too Serious?

It was the Minors Division championship. Top of the last inning. One team was

heading to the plate facing a three-run deficit and feeling, in its heart,

that the cause was lost because the other team had the ace of its staff on the

mound throwing peas.

The coach took his players to the bench. He didn't yell at them for the tough

inning that allowed the other team to take the lead. He didn't shout or put

anyone down. He did not denigrate the other team or blame the umpires in any

way.

All he said was, basically, "Guys, this is just a game. Win or lose, you're

still going to wake up tomorrow and start having yourself a great summer

vacation. All we ask is that you go out there and give us the best you can."

They gave the best they can.

But they still lost.

I don't know how many kids bought the coach's speech because, afterwards, he

spent a long time with them in the darkened shadows of their dugout . . .

congratulating the players on a good season, one would hope, although more

likely consoling those who didn't know how to deal with this relatively

insignificant bit of failure.

Every year, it seems, I find myself appalled at how serious Little League has

become in the hearts of some of these kids. How important it is to win. How

critical it is not to lose, not to fail, not to derive at least some measure

of accomplishment from a game that is really only a game.

I saw a kid cry because he gave up three clean hits and the other team scored

a couple runs.

I saw a kid cry because he was caught holding the bat on his shoulder and the

umpire banged him out on a called third strike.

I saw a kid cry because his error allowed the other team to score a run.

Kids are kids. Crying will happen. Crying should happen when a kid scrapes a

knee, gets hit with a pitch, twists a knee. Crying shouldn't happen when a

game that is only a game is simply not going right.

Hey, everybody wants to win. It is what drives good, healthy competition. But

at what point does the desire the win - the desire not to fail - corrupt the

heart of competition.

It is a matter of perspective.

My four-year-old son is starting t-ball this spring. No big deal. A bunch of

kids taking swings at a stationary ball on a tee and probably no more certain

about why they are doing that than why they have run to first base and why

they have to stop.

He is going to have fun. I know he is. He loves baseball and loves picking up

his big novelty plastic bat and whistling line drives past me. He reminds me

of when I was a little bit older than him, playing baseball in the backyard or

down the street almost every day of the week and having a lot of fun whether

or not I won or lost.

But it also got me to thinking about the Little League ladder - from minors to

majors and somewhere beyond - and what would happen if, at some point, I

wanted to coach.

Coaching is more than just knowing something about baseball. A coach has to be

a diplomat when dealing with parents and a psychologist when dealing with the

kids.

Could I handle it?

Maybe I would tell my kids, "This is a game. Just a game. We want to do our

best and we want to win, but winning or losing isn't going to change anything.

Unless you get hurt, crying will not be tolerated. Mistakes are part of the

game. Not being at your best is part of the game. It's okay to be frustrated,

but if you make a mistake or you don't have your best game at the field that

day, crying about it isn't going to help. Turn that frustration back inside

yourself and try harder to find your best and not to make mistakes. Use it to

your advantage. Don't let it hurt you."

And I believe, now, that I would bench any kid who cried because, to me, that

kid has given up trying to do his best. That's all I would ask - do your best

and you will have a better chance of winning than if you stood out there on

the field and hoped things would go your way.

But, hey, there will be times when a bunch of kids will perform the best that

they possibly can yet still lose the game. Learning to accept that, I think,

is part of the ideal behind enjoying the game not because you won, but because

it's a great game.

There are too many people - parents mostly - who think that winning is

everything. There are also too many people - again, mostly parents but lots of

times coaches as well - who think that winning is not important at all, that

every kid on the field deserves some kind of meaningless esteem-enriching pat

on the back for the simplest of accomplishments . . . like picking up a ground

ball and throwing it over to first.

I think we have to find the middle ground between those polar opposites and

make the game of baseball fun for these kids again . . . like it was in the

backyard, on the sandlot, or down the street.

Too few of them seem to be having it anymore.