ducks on the pond and other problems

I've been coaching a little league team comprised of 7 and 8 year olds and let me tell you, it's been an eye-opening experience for me.

Now, in the past, I've always thought of myself as a decent communicator--you know, someone who could make even the most confusing thing simple and understandable, but with this little league thing, I'm starting to wonder if maybe I might have held to an overblown idea of my own abilities. See, the other night we had a game and I'm pitching to my team. Before long, the first little kid gets a hit. (Which isn't unusual because most of the kids get hits and, in this particular league, most of them stay on the bases, moving one base at a time until they eventually score--which of course is not counted, which is another story.) So anyway, the first kid gets a hit and then so does the second kid. That means, in baseball talk, that we've got ducks on the pond. So I said that to batter number 3.

I said, "Hey Pete, come on bud, we've got ducks on the pond."

And he put his bat down and started looking around. "What pond?"

"I mean we've got runners on the bases . . . . I called them ducks because . . . ." (why do we call them ducks? And what's up with this pond thing?) "Ahhhhh, just get your bat ready, I'm going to pitch."

He looked at me and blinked. "What pond?"

His bat was still down and he was looking around, standing on his little cleated tip-toes, looking for the pond, so I walked over to him and told him it was just an expression--a cliche--and that all he needed to think about was hitting the ball. He seemed to understand and soon he had is bat hoisted on his shoulder.

I walked back to the "mound" and got ready to pitch. I was in my wind-up when he put the bat down and pointed at the trees just beyond the fence.

"Is the pond out there?"

Oh, mercy. "Yep! You got it bud. The pond's out there. Now, get ready."

"And there's ducks?"

"Loads of 'em."

That seemed to satisfy him and he hoisted his bat back up and got ready to hit. I tossed him the ball and he swung, hitting a slow dribbler back to the kid fielding the pitcher's position.

The little pitcher scooped it up and tossed it to first. The first baseman caught it and poor Pete was out. Finally. However, while it took forever to get to this point, I still wasn't done coaching good old Pete. See, while that whole at bat took place, I noticed something. I noticed that when Pete hit the ball, he started running down the line to first and then he pulled up and stopped halfway when he realized he was going to be out.

As he was walking back to the bench, I took that moment to impart a little of my baseball knowledge to him--you know, to coach him in the ways he should go. (I should have known better after the Ducks-on-the-Pond fiasco . . . but I'm a slow learner).

So I said, "Hey Pete! Good hit, buddy. But you gotta keep running, ok?"

Pete's head snapped up as he was nearing the bench and he looked at me with a weird look in his eyes. "I've gotta keep running?"

"Yeah. Keep running--even when you think you're out."

"Even when I'm out?"

I kept thinking what's that weird look in his eyes for? But I dismissed it and simply said, "Yep, keep running."

Well, Pete's a no-nonsense kind of kid. He turned on his heels and shot off down the base line straight towards first. He hit the bag going like sixty and made the turn to second. People started screaming at him--parents, grandparents, kids, coaches--and the other team didn't know what to do. I was yelling at him, telling him to stop running. As his little legs were kicking up infield gravel on his way to second, I shouted that he needed to run AFTER he hit the ball, but BEFORE he was out--and then I stopped and corrected myself and told him to run even when he thought he was out, but not to keep running after it was finally official that he was out. But that when it was official, I told him to officially stop running and return to the dugout. It was, to say the least, confusing. And surprisingly, it did nothing to slow Pete on his trek around the bases.

In fact, by the time I finished that convoluted explanation, Pete was almost to second and was getting ready to pass the runner who was legitimately there. Well, that kid, seeing Pete approaching at full speed, decided he'd better run too. I'm sure he figured he'd missed something and he shot off like a deer. Now, both of them were barrelling side by side down the line straight toward the poor little kid standing at third base who was waving at his parents in the stands. Suddenly he looked over and his eyes get huge as he sees two kids bearing down on him and he took off toward home plate.

All three scored at once, but, as I said earlier, we don't keep score.

When the game finally ended, we all wandered off toward our cars. I was kicking myself the whole way--frustrated about my inability to communicate what was in my mind to the kids on the field. And then I heard Pete talking to his grandpa, telling him about his homerun. His grandpa was eating it all up and patting Pete on the back and congratulating him and I was wondering if the old guy had fallen asleep and missed the whole fiasco or if he was just being nice to Pete. Before I could figure it out, I heard Pete shift gears in his conversation.

"Grandpa! There's a pond over there," he said, pointing at that line of trees just beyond the fence.

"There is? Well, let's go! I bet there are ducks!"

"Coach says there are tons of 'em . . . ."

Pete's voice faded away as he and his grandpa trudged through the long weeds toward the pond I doubted even existed. I just got in my car and drove home.

I'll deal with Pete's complaints about the lack of a pond next week.