Well, I'm coaching a little league team and we had our first practice tonight. It's a coach pitch league, so it's not terribly competitive--it's geared more to be a learning experience for the kids than an actual, competitive league--but while it may not be the most competitive league out there, it does look like it's going to be very, very phsyical (and by that, I mean physically painful).
See, this is my first time as a coach and I was honestly a little nervous about the whole thing tonight--nervous about our first practice. I didn't want to look stupid, like I didn't know what I was doing, because looking stupid is one of my least favorite hobbies. Well, being my first time, I decided that as the kids arrived, I needed to take charge immediately. As each one walked up, I greeted him with a nice "Hi, my name is Dan and you're name is...?" When each little boy told me his name, I smiled, repeated his name, promptly forgot his name (except for Mitchell who had his name on his shirt) and told him to grab a ball and a partner and do a little throwing. (I said it in my most manly, John Wayne-ish voice and I even used those words, "do a little throwing," because I thought they sounded cooler and more "coach-ish" than "go play catch.")
Anyway, every time I said that, each little guy would eagerly pull a ball out of the ball bucket and then run off onto the field while I stayed by the bench, talking with the adults and handing out schedules and packets of papers that contained stuff I hadn't read yet but that was in my coach's packet and which was printed on colored papers and therefore had to be immensely important.
Alright, so there I am, the coach--the guy in charge of all those little kids--standing on the bench handing things out to parents and talking and acting cool and in charge--and then I hear a couple parents gasp. I looked up at the little set of bleachers and I actually saw one mom shield her eyes and bury her face in her husband's shoulder. I heard a couple whispered profanities. All of this happened as the parents stared at the field. Every three seconds or less, one of them or more of them would close their eyes, cover their eyes, cover their mouth, turn their head away, or utter what turned out to be an extremely popular curse word. They all reacted differently, but one thing was consistent amongst all of them--they were, each and every one, staring at the field. In fact, I--the coach--was the only one not looking at the field.
Slowly, afraid of what I might see, I turned around and wow! I mean . . . wow. It was like a war zone. You know, this sounds mean and heartless, but man, kids can be so dumb sometimes. I'm sorry, children, but you can be.
See, when I had told them to "do a little throwing", I had envisioned crisp, military lines and synchronized throws. Instead, they were in sort of a weird, misshapen circle. Several unlucky kids--probably the weaker ones (you know how nature will have its way in the end)--were in the middle of the circle, staring into the sun. The other kids, on the outer rim, were throwing balls at them. Or to them. It was hard to tell.
Every couple of seconds, a ball would come whizzing out of the blazing yellow of the sun and some kid or another in the middle would suddenly see it and have exactly 1/3 of 1/4 of a second to react or eat leather. If it wasn't so potentially tragic, it would have been funny. Ahh, heck, if the other parents weren't watching, it would have been funny--watching those little-kid eyes pop out big and their little-kid heads bob this way and that as they hoisted up their little gloves to stop a ball they could barely see. As it was, even with the parents there, it was still kind of funny, but I realized it couldn't go on like this. At this rate, I'd be picking their overly large adult teeth out of the infield gravel and putting them in little baggies so they could go to the hospital and see what the doctors could do to put them right again.
So I walked into the swirling, buzzing circle of chaos and I whistled. Unfortunately, I'm a pansy when it comes to whistling. Nobody heard a thing. It was just a sputtering, windy sound over my flapping lips accompanied by a little bit of spit that flew out of my mouth. When whistling proved ineffectual, I decided to shout. I was the coach afterall and I needed to take charge and control. So I hollered, loud and clear, "everybody line up!"
Being children, they all, of course, remained in their blobby semi-circle and continued to throw balls at other kids' heads. I stepped into the line of fire and hollered again and was immediately hit in the shoulder and then the leg by a couple of balls. Suddenly, horrible visions of all those Funniest Home Videos shows came to mind and I imagined myself curled up in a fetal position, rolling on the infield gravel. I didn't want that. For any number of reasons. So I hollered once more, using what I lovingly refer to as my "dog-yellin' voice", and finally the kids filtered into lines.
It took some work, but eventually, I had them in two nice lines and I almost achieved my vision of perfection. The only problem was that, now that they were all in lines--one kid directly opposite another kid--once they were finally like that--finally ordered--nobody had any idea who was throwing to them. I still don't know what their little brains were thinking, but there was no denying it--they were more confused now than they were when everybody was in the blobby circle. Balls of death filled the air like angry bees and children started dropping like flies. It was kind of like a scene from a movie depicting a firing range. You know, one side had the balls, the other side just stood there. I said "throw" like a soldier might yell "fire" and the balls filled the air and collided with the children on the other side. Only two or three raised their gloves to protect themselves. The rest just ate the leather and collapsed in little freckle-faced heaps on the ground.
The dust swirled when they hit the ground and I chanced a glance over at the bleachers. Many parents were shaking their heads and a couple had their eyes completely covered. I looked back at the field and surveyed my troops. Eight, no nine were still standing. Nine out of fourteen. That's not terrible. Then I looked at my watch: 5:38. Hmmmmm. We still had 52 minutes to go.
See, this is my first time as a coach and I was honestly a little nervous about the whole thing tonight--nervous about our first practice. I didn't want to look stupid, like I didn't know what I was doing, because looking stupid is one of my least favorite hobbies. Well, being my first time, I decided that as the kids arrived, I needed to take charge immediately. As each one walked up, I greeted him with a nice "Hi, my name is Dan and you're name is...?" When each little boy told me his name, I smiled, repeated his name, promptly forgot his name (except for Mitchell who had his name on his shirt) and told him to grab a ball and a partner and do a little throwing. (I said it in my most manly, John Wayne-ish voice and I even used those words, "do a little throwing," because I thought they sounded cooler and more "coach-ish" than "go play catch.")
Anyway, every time I said that, each little guy would eagerly pull a ball out of the ball bucket and then run off onto the field while I stayed by the bench, talking with the adults and handing out schedules and packets of papers that contained stuff I hadn't read yet but that was in my coach's packet and which was printed on colored papers and therefore had to be immensely important.
Alright, so there I am, the coach--the guy in charge of all those little kids--standing on the bench handing things out to parents and talking and acting cool and in charge--and then I hear a couple parents gasp. I looked up at the little set of bleachers and I actually saw one mom shield her eyes and bury her face in her husband's shoulder. I heard a couple whispered profanities. All of this happened as the parents stared at the field. Every three seconds or less, one of them or more of them would close their eyes, cover their eyes, cover their mouth, turn their head away, or utter what turned out to be an extremely popular curse word. They all reacted differently, but one thing was consistent amongst all of them--they were, each and every one, staring at the field. In fact, I--the coach--was the only one not looking at the field.
Slowly, afraid of what I might see, I turned around and wow! I mean . . . wow. It was like a war zone. You know, this sounds mean and heartless, but man, kids can be so dumb sometimes. I'm sorry, children, but you can be.
See, when I had told them to "do a little throwing", I had envisioned crisp, military lines and synchronized throws. Instead, they were in sort of a weird, misshapen circle. Several unlucky kids--probably the weaker ones (you know how nature will have its way in the end)--were in the middle of the circle, staring into the sun. The other kids, on the outer rim, were throwing balls at them. Or to them. It was hard to tell.
Every couple of seconds, a ball would come whizzing out of the blazing yellow of the sun and some kid or another in the middle would suddenly see it and have exactly 1/3 of 1/4 of a second to react or eat leather. If it wasn't so potentially tragic, it would have been funny. Ahh, heck, if the other parents weren't watching, it would have been funny--watching those little-kid eyes pop out big and their little-kid heads bob this way and that as they hoisted up their little gloves to stop a ball they could barely see. As it was, even with the parents there, it was still kind of funny, but I realized it couldn't go on like this. At this rate, I'd be picking their overly large adult teeth out of the infield gravel and putting them in little baggies so they could go to the hospital and see what the doctors could do to put them right again.
So I walked into the swirling, buzzing circle of chaos and I whistled. Unfortunately, I'm a pansy when it comes to whistling. Nobody heard a thing. It was just a sputtering, windy sound over my flapping lips accompanied by a little bit of spit that flew out of my mouth. When whistling proved ineffectual, I decided to shout. I was the coach afterall and I needed to take charge and control. So I hollered, loud and clear, "everybody line up!"
Being children, they all, of course, remained in their blobby semi-circle and continued to throw balls at other kids' heads. I stepped into the line of fire and hollered again and was immediately hit in the shoulder and then the leg by a couple of balls. Suddenly, horrible visions of all those Funniest Home Videos shows came to mind and I imagined myself curled up in a fetal position, rolling on the infield gravel. I didn't want that. For any number of reasons. So I hollered once more, using what I lovingly refer to as my "dog-yellin' voice", and finally the kids filtered into lines.
It took some work, but eventually, I had them in two nice lines and I almost achieved my vision of perfection. The only problem was that, now that they were all in lines--one kid directly opposite another kid--once they were finally like that--finally ordered--nobody had any idea who was throwing to them. I still don't know what their little brains were thinking, but there was no denying it--they were more confused now than they were when everybody was in the blobby circle. Balls of death filled the air like angry bees and children started dropping like flies. It was kind of like a scene from a movie depicting a firing range. You know, one side had the balls, the other side just stood there. I said "throw" like a soldier might yell "fire" and the balls filled the air and collided with the children on the other side. Only two or three raised their gloves to protect themselves. The rest just ate the leather and collapsed in little freckle-faced heaps on the ground.
The dust swirled when they hit the ground and I chanced a glance over at the bleachers. Many parents were shaking their heads and a couple had their eyes completely covered. I looked back at the field and surveyed my troops. Eight, no nine were still standing. Nine out of fourteen. That's not terrible. Then I looked at my watch: 5:38. Hmmmmm. We still had 52 minutes to go.
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