Little League, Big Asshole
A story about parents, kids, and baseball
I never read Jim Bouton’s book, Ball Four: My Life and Hard Times Throwing the Knuckleball in the Big Leagues. Maybe one day I’ll remedy that, because I love baseball, and I love a good memoir, especially if it tells the unvarnished truth. In Bouton’s case, that unvarnished truth included rampant womanizing among Major League Baseball players (shocking, I know), Mickey Mantle’s drinking problem (again, shocking), and routine drug use, especially amphetamines (hey, after a cross-country flight and a day-night doubleheader, even the pros need a little pick-me-up, right?). But that’s Major League Baseball, and this post is about Little League Baseball, which come to think of it, is overdue for a tell-all memoir.
On a recent Saturday, Christina and I went to see her god-daughter’s Little League game. As a veteran of the Sherman Oaks Little (1984 to 1991), I had some concerns. Not about the kids — they’re great. Or the umps — they’re usually just hardworking teens trying to gain some job experience. No, I was concerned about the parents. In my experience, some of these fuckers can be a real problem. Back in the day just before my day, aka the 1970s, a popular documentary starring Walter Matthau, Jackie Earle Haley, and Tatum O’Neal did for Little League what Ball Four did for Major League Baseball. It was called The Bad News Bears.
Little League in the 1980s and early ‘90s didn’t change all that much from The Bad News Bears days. Instead of wooden bats, we used metal. Our coaches were less likely to be full-blown alcoholics. And, thankfully, enlightened players like yours truly frowned upon the use of racial epithets. But one thing didn’t change at all: the parents. A decade or so before signing their kids up for Little League, these fuckers had fucked around, literally, and nine months later, found out that they had a kid. Technically, these mothers and fathers were responsible for the care, support, and education of their offspring. Technically. In reality, their job was to heckle Little Leaguers.
“We gotta keep our eyes on these motherfuckers,” I told Christina as we walked toward the diamond.
“Ryan and Chelsea? I think they’re just here to cheer for Eliza.”
I wasn’t worried about Ryan and Chelsea. As Canadians, they only boo authoritarians and their enablers. Americans hit different. Example: In Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, they booed Santa Claus.
As soon as we took our seats, I spotted a likely suspect. He was the father of a player on the other team, but I didn’t hold that against him. My concern was his mouth. It was loud and full of comments about what was happening on the field.
“I’m keeping my eyes on that guy,” I told Christina.
“You think he’s trouble?”
“I know he’s trouble.”
But as one inning stretched into the next, Mr. Loudmouth proved me wrong. He was loud and he had a lot to say about what was happening on the field, but his comments were entirely positive. He even cheered for the players on our team. And let me tell you, at this age, the players need all the encouragement they can get. Seven-year-olds are many things, but baseball players they are not. Seeing a player swing at a wild pitch that passed behind their back was a common sight. Less common sights were players catching the ball, strong throws to the right base, and hits.
“How long do these games last?” Chelsea asked me.
I explained that baseball has no clock, that it’s a democratic contest, where both teams get an equal number of turns, unless it rains, in which case, we reschedule.
“But this game does feel long,” Christina said.
Ryan nodded in agreement.
“My guess is they play four innings or sixty minutes, whichever comes first.”
As it turned out, that was a good guess. Somewhere around the sixty-minute mark, Eliza’s team took the lead. Since they were the home team, that should’ve ended the game. In fact, it did end the game. Sort of. Eliza’s team huddled in front of the dugout, cheered for the other team, then walked out onto the diamond to shake hands. But their opponents remained in their dugout. That was when the other coach pitched a fit.
“The rule book says we play five innings, not four.”
There was some debate about a time limit, but ultimately, the opposing coach prevailed, and we settled in for one more inning. Well, most of us did anyway. Eliza and several teammates took their seats in the bleachers and cracked open their Capri Suns. But the rest of the kids continued to play ball. And as it turned out, the top of the fifth saw some of the best baseball of the day.
With a runner on third, some kid I’ll call Shohei Ohtani cracked a line drive past the shortstop, who happened to be seated on second base at the time. Ohtani ran to first, the left fielder scooped up the ball cleanly and fired it into the cutoff man. But the cutoff man was afraid of the ball, so it sailed past him, and Ohtani took second. The first baseman picked up the ball and threw it to third, but the throw arced high and fell short of the bag, allowing Ohtani to take third. At that point, with a full head of steam, Ohtani rounded third and headed for home. The catcher, a kid I’ll call Mike Scioscia, moved to block the plate. The third baseman rifled the ball home. Ohtani slid. Scioscia caught the ball — a minor miracle and cause for wild cheering. It was, as the late great Vince Scully would say, a “bang-bang” play at home. When the dust settled, the ump made the call.
“Safe!”
Fans from both teams cheered. It really was the best play we’d seen all day. But in an instant, the fortunes of Eliza’s team had changed. The tying and go-ahead runs had crossed the plate.
The next batter grounded out to first. With two outs remaining, another batter stepped up to the plate, looking for something the pros call an “insurance run.”
“Hey wait a minute,” a father shouted. “That kid was out at home.”
The father wasn’t one I’d identified as a troublemaker. He had been too busy looking at his phone to raise any alarms. But as it turned out, The Talented Mr. Replay had filmed the play at the plate.
“Look at this! Look!”
A few parents huddled around The Talented Mr. Replay. They marveled at his cinematography skills. Real Roger Deakins shit — if you know, you know, and if you don’t you should watch 1917, No Country for Old Men, Fargo, and pretty much every Coen brothers film.
“You should show the coach,” some genius said.
The suggestion was seconded by several more geniuses. A moment later, the coach looked at the replay, then he called time out, and trotted out onto the diamond to parlay with the ump.
It was at this point when the old man sitting in front of me turned around and asked, “Do you believe this guy?”
I didn’t believe this guy. How could I? There is no instant replay in Little League, and even if there was such a thing, Eliza’s coach had failed to raise the challenge in a timely manner. But also, replay for a Little League game?!
“What are we doing here?” the opposing coach asked.
“He was out. Look at the tape,” Eliza’s coach said, ignoring the fact that the digital age had rendered Warner Wolf’s “let’s go to the videotape!” tagline moot.
The opposing coach watched the clip. The ump watched too. From the stands, I couldn’t really tell if the ump believed that he had gotten the call wrong. Honestly, the ump was barely old enough to shave, and I think he was at a loss for words, with one adult urging him to reverse his call and another adult demanding that the call stand. As the heckling grew from both sides, I got that queasy feeling from my playing days. Couldn’t these assholes just shut the fuck up and let the kids play?
And that, dear reader, is when Mr. Loudmouth stepped up to the plate.
“It’s a Little League game!” he shouted. “This is ridiculous. The kids are having fun.”
Every damn word Mr. Loudmouth spoke was straight truth. And while some of the parents, especially The Talented Mr. Replay didn’t want to hear it, sanity prevailed.
“Let’s just play ball,” the ump said.
And so they played.
The top of the fifth ended without the opposing team securing an insurance run. The bottom of the fifth ended without Eliza’s team scoring. The opposing team had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, or as The Talented Mr. Replay saw it, they had cheated. But the game was over, and there was plenty of joy in Mudville because although one team had won and the other had lost, everyone got snacks.
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Stick around and chat
I ask, you answer
Why are some parents bat-shit crazy assholes when it comes to youth sports? Go deep!
Was that kid safe or out? Hint: It doesn’t fucking matter.
Who hurt The Talented Mr. Replay? Tell his story!
What’s the greatest baseball movie of all time and why is it Bull Durham?
Did you bring snacks? Tell everyone what you’re snacking on.
"...although one team had won and the other had lost, everyone got snacks." Ah, if only life could be like that...
I am in the process of writing a memoir about my days playing baseball as I was growing up in the 80s. So many things have changed. And I don't recall parents being nearly as crazy back then as they are now. Not when I played and not when I started umpiring Little League games at 14. Why is it so volatile now? Many, many possibilities come to mind. For one thing, I think leagues and umpires are more loosely run now than they used to be. When I was a kid there were always officials from the league around and the head of umpires was always wandering around the different fields keeping an eye on things. There was more respect in the world during that time period. And - this is a very broad statement - I think the Internet has contributed to the fall of American society. That's coming from a guy who loves the Internet and uses it numerous times a day.