I coached a little league baseball team that was Bad News Bears bad. But we won a classic victory over the forces of evil during the final game of the summer season.
I really did have a special team. Kids who had no running shoes. Kids who had never once before worn a baseball glove. Brothers with physical and mental challenges, plus my son and a couple of other regular kids. Our team had not won a game all season. I would say to the other coaches before each game, “I am teaching these guys the very basics, so would you be OK if we keep it all slow and simple?”
Every other coach in the league had responded to this request as you would expect. They happily worked around us. Not this coach. His team had not lost a game all season and this was the end of their year. “OK.” He grunted resentfully. “But if you guys start to win we’re gonna steal bases. It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them.” Yay! Little league spirit!
One of my special needs kids always played first base, a position that does not demand a lot of running. I coached him: foot on base, turn to the field, raise glove, catch ball. Each time he would go through this mental checklist. Except he never got past “foot on base”. By the time he got that far he usually had gotten a ball in the face. He never used his glove. He was Ball-in-Face. And he insisted on playing first.
So the game began. And my boys just rained baseball. They were slugging the ball, fielding well. Ball-in-Face was making out after painful out. It was magic to see the delight on the faces of the boys. The other team came up to bat. Their first hit and they stole a base. My boys went crazy. So I called time out and explained how it worked. I told them not to worry about it. Lets just get the outs and have fun.
The next time we got up to bat, up to plate walks Ball-in-Face. He was our worst hitter and he ran like Forest Gump in leg braces. In came the pitch. He hit a little dribble up the third base line.
After admiring his little hit for a moment, he remembered to run and began to lumber towards first. He would never beat the throw. But the other team was so surprised he had hit the ball that they were late with the throw, which sailed over the first baseman’s head. Ball-in-Face thundered around first and headed to second. I screamed at him not to do so. He was s sitting duck out there. But the same thing happened at every base: the other team would overthrow, coaches would yell for him to stop, Ball-in-Face would keep running. And damned if he didn’t score.
Every parent and every team mate leapt from the stands to meet him as he crossed home. This was the first time he had ever scored, perhaps in any game, in any sport, anywhere. I also knew it would be his last: he was already playing down two years because of his disabilities. The league would not let him play again next year. But he had gotten his run!
As we regained our composure I did a quick mental consolidation. “Ump”, I said. “Can I confirm that we are past minimum time, both teams have had equal at bats, I am the home team, and that I have the right to call the game if I want, correct?”
“Correct.” Said the Ump.
“Then may I ask you please: what is the score?” He checked. We were up by one run. I called the game.
Pandemonium. In that moment my team of beautiful losers had won the Superbowl, the Stanley Cup, The World Cup, and every other combined cup, all at the same time. They were leaping, hugging, screaming.
The other coach stormed over to where I was thanking the ump for the game. “You can’t do that!”, he said. “There’s plenty of time to play ball and my guys want more at bats”. I looked at him and said, “It’s the league rules and we’re going to abide by them”. Victory complete.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]
This story is dedicated to our hosts from Arkansas, the best baseball family we know.