Teeball: This Is Boring

Today, friends of mine got married, but I had to leave the wedding before the reception began in order to coach my son’s teeball game.  I had hoped that the assistant  coach would have been able to step up today and take over the game so I didn’t have to leave early, but the assistant coach had informed me last week that he wasn’t going to be much of an assistant since his job ensured that he spent more time away than at home.  And due to the league’s wonderful rule that requires all recreation coaches to hold a special Rutgers certification, I couldn’t even ask another parent to pick up the slack this afternoon.  It’s an awesome deal for Rutgers, they get to rake in the money; it’s an unfair deal for the little people like me.  I should have realized the awfulness of it when I volunteered and was then informed I had to pay to take the course.  Seriously, I volunteer and then I have to pay an added fee on top of volunteering, a fee other parents, who aren’t giving their time, don’t have to pay.  What little leagues should do is increase the fee to play for kids whose parents don’t volunteer and then pay registration costs for the parents who are willing to give their time. 

On my team, I have seven players.  Teeball teams are kept to a minimum so that the games don’t last an eternity.  The games often seem long enough as it is for players and parents.  Today, only four of my players showed up.  I was slightly perturbed, especially since yesterday it had been suggested to me that I cancel the game so that I could attend the wedding.  I declined to do so, mainly because I refused to disappoint my own son – who probably wouldn’t have cared as long as he got to play in the playground – but also because I didn’t think it was fair to disappoint the other kids, the ones on my team as well as our opponents. Besides, I was kind of raised with the philosophy that once you make a commitment nothing, not even death, should get in the way of you keeping your promise.  Three players didn’t show up, we did not have a full team, but the good thing about teeball is there are no rules; pretty much anything goes.  We could field a team with four players, and the advantage to having less people on the field was I didn’t have to worry so much about the kids tackling each other in a mad frenzy to catch the ball. 

My son was enthusiastic when I arrived on the field and he could not wait to have a catch.  So I threw a few grounders to him and the other kid who got there early.  As the other boys arrived they joined in.  As we were practicing, I realized that some kids, my son included, were stepping with the incorrect foot when they threw.  I decided it might be a good time for a brief lesson in proper form. I demonstrated the right way to throw and explained to them that the foot they step with is on the same side of their body as their glove.  I showed them to hold out their glove hand, step towards the glove and then throw.  This I hoped might give them a visual clue while they were playing.

When the game was about to start, I asked my spouse – who is not Rutgers certified - to coach first base, and I asked the spouse of my assistant coach – also not Rutgers certified - to help the kids get ready in the dugout. I didn’t care about the legitimacy of it.  I needed help and Rutgers wasn’t offering any.  I’m only one person and I physically could not have eyes all over the field at once.  Besides, the other team had older kids in the field coaching - presumably not Rutgers certified.   While coaching first base, my spouse picked up a wayward ball and threw it to me.  “It’s your faulted,” I chided her as she stepped into the throw - stepping with her right foot and throwing with her right hand.  “It’s your fault, our son doesn’t throw properly.”  And then with a smile I added, “I forbid you from ever throwing again in his presence.” 

As the away team, we got to bat first.  In baseball it is of course advantageous to bat last, but with tiny tots I think the reverse is true.  Batting is far more appealing to most kids than fielding, which means they want to do it. I set the batting order based on the numbers the kids wore, which meant that my son hit second. He could not wait to swing, and as soon as the ball was placed on the tee he went after it.  He hit the ball to the pitcher and ran to first.  When the last kid in the batting order got up to hit, my son was on second.  When his teammate hit the ball he ran, and he was running his heart out, pumping his arms and legs as fast as he could, but he looked like he was running in slow motion, an illusion that was emphasized as his teammate passed him rounding third base.  He didn’t care, he crossed home plate with a huge smile on his face and nearly knocked me down deciding to give me a hug instead of a high five.

In the field, my son was far more interested in the mud than in what was happening at home plate.  I continuously had to call his name and give him a gentle reminder that he should be looking at the batter.  When the ball was hit, half the time he just stood there and watched it.  Once, when he was standing on the pitcher’s mound, an opposing player hit the ball fairly hard down the first base line.  “Get it,” I screamed to my son, who took off running into foul territory, completely oblivious as to where the ball was as he nearly crashed into the fence.  On the field I had two boys who had a decent clue about what to do and they tried very hard.  They chased down the ball and tried their best at first base to catch what was thrown to them.  I had two other boys – one of which was my own son - who were completely distracted and who wanted to be anywhere except where they were. At one point in the field, one of the little distracted boys called my son’s name, “I’m bored.”  Without missing a beat, my son replied with a sigh, “This is boring.”  And I thought, “For this I left the wedding.”  Then I reminded myself that my son did have fun warming up and he did enjoy batting.  Besides, the smile on his face and the hug when he crossed home were certainly worth leaving early for.