What We Do to Our Children

So Son is bored, bored, bored, bored, bored with life in an apartment. In this apartment in particular. He wants to go places and do things. Unfortunately, all of the places he wants to go to, and all of the things he wants to do when he gets there, cost money.

Today he began by suggesting we go to the golf course. It's an excellent idea. It would get us outside and breathing non-cigarette smoked air. But they don't let people play golf for free around here. In fact, it can be quite expensive. At $20 per person for nine holes at the executive course, and another $20 to rent the cart, we would be spending no less than $60 for a short round of golf on an executive course. (There is no way I could walk it. I would have a heart attack and die. Not necessarily a horrible way to go, but the timing would be poor.)

Later, he suggested we drive to Otsego and go to the batting cages. Another not-so-bad idea. But even the batting cages aren't free. Or cheap. I don't recall the exact price, but in order to get a good amount of bat swinging in one has to be get a lot of tokens.

We've had cool fall weather in Minnesota, but the snows which fell earlier have all melted away, and the recent snows and rain which were predicted failed to show up. So I expect the golf courses and batting cages are actually still open despite it being November. But even though we just got a pile of money in the mail, it would be kind of irresponsible to spend that much money on fun when we weren't able to make November rent on time.

So we stayed in the apartment and Son amused himself with his Wii and GameCube, interrupted on occasion with efforts to find other things to do.

I wasted the day. Can't write with a steady stream of interruptions. So I played computer games and interrupted those on occasion by laying on the bed and wishing I was either asleep or had lots of money so we could go golfing or visit the batting cages.

One of the things Son did to try and amuse himself was rummage through boxes. He showed up at the desk holding three of my sports trophies. One was from 1971. It was a second place trophy from the Soderville Athletic Association for playing baseball. We would have won the championship had it not been discovered that our coach was cheating.

The second trophy was from 1979. It was a consolation trophy from hte Mounds View Parks and Recreation Department. That was the year my brother had convinced Stephen, Chris, and me to join him in a a touch football league. We would have won the championship there, too, except I got married on the day the play-offs began and we had to forfeit the first game, which put us in the consolation bracket. No double elimination.

The third trophy is probaby the best of the three. It's from 2006. It didn't come from any league, or association, or anything like that. It came from a group of 11 boys I coached at Willie Mays baseball. It's an open baseball glove on a stand. Both are made of plastic. Resting in the glove is a new baseball, signed by every member of the team. They write, "Thanks Coach for a great year!"

It was, too. It was a difficult year in many ways, but once again our team won the consolation trophy. (As coach I didn't receive anything for that.) We had to win three games in six hours with a heat index of over 100 degrees. Son got sick from the heat. So did players from other teams. I cried when it was over because I had failed to pay close enough attention, believing I would see the signs before it was too late. I was wrong, and it cost Son and other players. When Son got sick I tried to end the game by forfeiting, but the parents, umpires, other team, and league officials wouldn't allow it. We had to finish that consolation champion game. We did, and our team won, but I have been banned from the league for my horrible behavior. (I also tried to end an earlier play-off game when it got dark and began to rain. Once again no one would allow me to forfeit, but I took Son and went home. I - and Son - were punished for this infraction against youth baseball and had to sit out a game.)

Not all parents liked my coaching style. To be honest, few did. And not just in baseball. I also coached several of Son's basketball teams. Until they ran me out of that, too. You see, I don't coach youth teams with idea they are going to win. I coach them so that they learn how to play the game and have fun doing it. This means just getting better, or even just learning how it is done.

To the horror of my assistant coach I actually drafted a girl onto the team on purpose! I had seen there were three girls who had chosen to play youth baseball instead of youth softball. I knew in my heart that unless these girls were very good they would not be given a fair chance. And based on the skills chart only one showed any promise. The next happened to be in the same round as Son's best friend, and I chose him instead of the girl. Son's best friend isn't exactly a sports legend himself. (He had never played baseball before and didn't know how to do anything.) So when the third girl's round came up I had first pick. I picked her. My assistant had argued and argued against it, but I didn't even bother to argue back. I just picked her.

Turned out she didn't know much about baseball either. We played 15 games, and for the first 14 she was a sure out. But then so was Son's best friend. But those two players made me feel a zillions times better than I did when the team won those three game to claim the consolation championship.

Son's best friend became a better than average defensive player. When the season began he couldn't throw the ball ten feet. (Ever see the movie, Sandlot?) By the end he threw out a fast runn from the third base position. It was a great play. And the girl finally got a hit.

To me, that is what youth sports is all about. But when the leagues are playing, I am the ONLY won who coaches that way. The others all shunt aside their 'weak' players and focus on the 'good' ones. When Son's best friend played basketball last year his coach told him to just stand under the basket and collect rebounds. Didn't teach him a thing. Everything I had taught him before was tossed away.

We ruin sports for our children now. Son had no interest in signing up for even basketball this year. And he's good. He has played defense against all of the so-call 'great' players in his class. He shut them all down. They all begged not to have Son play defense against them. They got their wish. He quit. He has no interest in sport politics. He just wanted to have fun, and it isn't anymore.

When I was young, it was.

Fallen Fruit Will Rot on the Ground

Do you remember your dreams? Not the ones you get nightly. I'm talking about those you create in your heart and then play over and over in your conscious thought. Some of you may actually have achieved one or more of your dreams. I'm thinking, though, that most of us do not. For whatever reason, they just don't happen.

How do you respond when you realize your dream will only ever be just that: a dream? Do you remember your first? What was it that captured your imagination for the first time? I still remember mine. It began when I was young. So very young it seems now.

My brother introduced me to baseball when I was five. Probably earlier, but I have no memories before five, so I'm going with that. Mickey would have been fifteen then. I remember him pitching to me when we lived at the "pink and white house", which was the name Helvie and I gave to the pink and white house we lived in up in Shoreview, north of St. Paul. I was batting left-handed. Back then I was exclusively left-handed. My back was nearly to the fence. I remember swinging the bat and feeling the thud of good contact as it struck the ball. I recall how I felt as I watched the ball sail over the heads of everyone and continue over the fence to land in Uncle Harold's yard. I don't know how far I hit it, but considering normal property lines I am guessing it had to have gone more than one hundred feet in the air. I was a power hitter.

Moving to the country meant few organized teams for me. It was difficult to spark enough interest in rural Minnesota back then. We did have one year, 1965 or 1966, when interest was high. My team was the Navigators (I thought that named s*cked), and we wore yellow (a cr*p color for a baseball team). There was no trophy that year, which was too bad, since we won more games than anyone.

I was thirteen I would play on an organized team again. One of the neighboring towns had four teams - and an official field. It was surrounded completely by a fence. The backstop was huge. There were concrete dugouts! And the outfield fence had signs posted to indicate the distances from home plate. The shortest was 375-feet. The longest was 400-feet. We got to play there four times in the season, and then twice in the play-offs. It was there I had one of my "great moments" of the game. What a pity that it should come when I was so young.

I remember the Soderville team had put up its ace pitcher; a tall, lanky boy who threw hard. He may have been a bit taller than me, or perhaps we were the same height, but I had more muscle and bone to work with. He had given up a hit and a walk and was now pitching to me. Now I was batting right-handed, having been forced to convert by my parents and older brother, who somehow viewed being left-handed as a terrible disease. He threw nothing but fast balls. On his fourth pitch he put the ball right where I wanted it. I swung as hard as I could.

It was the same feeling I had when I hit that home run at five. I felt the ball and bat come together perfectly. I saw them meet about belt high, a little in front of home plate. The ball left the bat with the added power of my swing, my hips, my arms, and the turn of my wrists. I knew I had hit it over the left-fielder's head. Now, if I could only run fast enough I should be able to round the bases. The ball might even roll to the fence.

I vaguely remember hearing the cheers when I hit it. Back then parents often sat in their cars and honked the horn whenever anything of worth took place. I don't really remember it going quiet, but it did. What I do remember was glancing to left-field as I came up and around second base. I could see the left fielder still running. The ball had rolled to the fence! Then, as I came to third, the coach, who was coaching third base, held out his hand and told me to quit running. So I walked in to home plate.

When I got to the dugout I realized nobody was cheering. Nobody was saying anything much. They were just staring at me. So I asked what had happened. Tommy, who was sitting next to me, asked why I had run so hard. I said I wanted to be sure I got the home run. Why? That was when Kevin told me what had happened.

"Well you already had that, stupid. You hit it over the fence."

I was dumbfounded. I looked out to the field and, sure enough, the opposing team's outfielders were searching the tall grass on the other side of the fence. It took several minutes before they found it because the grass was so thick. When they did, the opposing coach stepped it off. No one knew for certain, but the guesstimate was that I had hit it 430-feet. My coach took the ball and had everyone on the team sign it and I got to keep it. It became my most prized possession, until the house burned two years later. I got a replacement ball, but the person who gave it to me wrote 375-feet, because that was what the marker on the fence said. I don't know if I still have that one.

I was a good ballplayer, but kind of a big fish in a small pond. Apparently, I lacked something. I was scouted, both by colleges and by the major leagues. But no one came to my door to offer anything. Whatever they wanted, I didn't have it. I've often wondered if my taking a year off to do drama club didn't make a difference. I didn't play as well when I came back, due to my teammates no longer accepting me. I needed that to play well. When I was up I played better than anyone I knew. But when I was down, which happened, I wasn't much good at all. I suppose if I had achieved this dream it would have destroyed me. Maybe that's what I lacked. I was good, but I didn't have the skills of Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Rod Carew, or Roberto Clemente. So without the rest it was just a waste of time to bring me up.

When I realized my baseball dream was over I went into coast mode, and stayed there a long time. Writing got me out of it, but only while the inspiration lasted. When that died I returned to coast mode, where I have remained until just recently.

Now I'm staring into the face of my other dream and wondering: Do I have what it takes this time?