I’m old school, I’ll admit. I would admit it with pride were I not wary of the consequences. These days, “old school” is the rough equivalent of “barbaric” in the minds of many “new schoolers.” To wit, consider the following true story:
As my sons grew up in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, I would always coach their youth baseball teams. Generally loudly. I was animated, passionate, competitive within reason, and demanding within reason. I set the bar high because I remembered how I gained every time any of my mentors set the bar high. For more than a decade, that was how Coach Y rolled.
Fast forward 20-something years, when a friend with an 8-year-old recently asked if I might want to help him work with his son’s “coach-pitch” youth team. Remembering how much I enjoyed the first run, I told him I would be honored to join the staff. And I was …
Until one batter into the first game. That’s how long it took for me to realize I had become a dinosaur. During that first batter’s first time to the plate, he was tossed the allotted seven pitches. He swung at none. The umpire called him out and pointed him to the dugout. He went — and was enthusiastically embraced by virtually every member of the home team crowd. “Good job, Ace,” was the refrain from more than one onlooker. “You’ll get ‘em next time,” said a few others.
Timeout!
With all due respect to this collection of members of Generation X, Ace did Xactly nothing for which to be applauded. Taking seven pitches is not a “good job.” And the odds of him “getting ‘em next time” were largely predicated on the notion that he would at least have TO TRY to get ‘em at some time. After the inning, I went to the dugout and asked the kid. “Do you want to get a hit?” He nodded. “Then,” I said, “you have to swing the bat, It kind of works that way. You swing the bat. The bat hits the ball. You run to first. Everybody cheers, and all the girls like you. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Again, he nods — and adds, “but I hate girls.”
“Then, next time pretend that ball is a girl,” I told him. He said he would — then, keeping his word during his next at bat, he took a healthy cut at the first pitch and whacked it past the shortstop, all the way to a left fielder more intent on chasing butterflies than stopping a swiftly moving ground ball. For those keeping score at home, our leadoff batter’s FHE (first hit ever) was a double. I predict it will also be the FOM (first of many).
I write all this not to boast about my ability to cultivate 8-year-olds into Hall of Famers. The truth is it was probably more luck than skill that his bat even hit the ball. No matter. Now, the kid thinks he’s a hitter — all because the bar got raised just a little. He got a hit all right — but only because he finally decided to swing the bat.
I’m sure there are some nifty Web sites I could cite to reinforce this point. But, as I said at the top, I’m old school. And, by the way, I’m proud of that.
-- Yale
