So Much More Than A Game

By Julie Wyckoff

During one magical summer, a group of young boys played baseball with heart, spirit and joy, but not at the beginning of the season. Starting as a disparate group, some unhappy with being stuck with a woman coach, some battling their egos, some battling their confidence and some battling their fears, they grew into a team with purpose, and unity, and with a never quit attitude, and they had fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Wyckoff
• Release date: Apr 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452372181

Julie Wyckoff

Julie Wyckoff is a freelance writer and photographer. She is the author of the novel, "When Two Hearts Are One", the book-length narrative essay, "So Much More Than A Game", and the non-fiction book, "My Dear Wife: The Civil War Diaries and Letters of John Quigley"."So Much More Than A Game" is about a young group of boys playing baseball with heart and spirit and joy...but not at the beginning of the season. Starting as a disparate group, some unhappy with being stuck with a woman coach, some battling their egos, some battling their confidence and some battling their fears, they grew into a team with purpose, and unity, and with a never quit attitude... and they had fun."My Dear Wife...." is about Julie's great great grandfather. His letters to his wife and his diary kept during the Civil War were passed down to her. She compiled, edited and annotated and published them. They are source material. John Quigley didn't perform great heroic feats, but carried out his duties with honor even while he suffered to see his family and grew angry when he couldn't obtain a furlough. His papers create snapshots of historical events from one man's perspective.Julie is the producer of the video documentaries, 'Where the River Flows Clean', 'A Matter of Attitude' and "Grand Adventure-The Journey of Grand River Expedition '90'.Julie has also published short stories, articles and narrative essays in various publications over the past 30 years.

Book preview

So Much More Than A Game

Julie Wyckoff

Smashwords Edition

*****

Copyright © 2009 by Julie Wyckoff

ISBN: 978-1-4523-7218-1

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The names of the boys have been changed, except for my sons’, Nick and Peter.

*****

This book is dedicated to my sons for allowing me to coach them, and to the boys on their teams for all the special memories they gave me.

Although this story took place in the early 1990’s and bats have become even more high tech, pitch counting is more standard, and young boys’ lives have become more complicated, young boys are still young boys and baseball is still so much more than just a game.

I thank the country league we played in and all the volunteers that worked hard to create a positive experience for all players.

I thank the coaches from Doyle Baseball for their expertise, the skills they taught to both players and coaches, and their inspiration to work hard, play hard and have fun.

*****

Chapter One

It’s Just A Game?

I was tense and fidgeting and relegated to the sidelines, for God’s sake. I couldn’t go out and give words of encouragement to my son on the mound, and it might embarrass him if I yelled from the sidelines, given I was there as his mother, not his coach. I couldn’t even pace or stand by the bench gripping the wire fence on the backstop. It was driving me crazy. I had coached Nick the year before, I had helped him develop as a pitcher, and now I had to sit there as his mother and behave. It wasn’t fair.

Perhaps I got into coaching in part because I wanted to get out there and play with the kids, not watch nicely from the sidelines. But I was coaching my younger son’s team, not Nick’s, and so there I was, watching Nick struggle. He was pitching all right, but his fielders’ defense had lapsed in a close game, and he was out there trying to forget the pickle they’d gotten him into, and trying to concentrate on the batter. They nailed him for a run.

I let out my pent–up breath. I wanted to ring the necks of those fielders, even though I’d never consider doing that to the players on the team I coached. Without coaching Nick’s team, I had forged few connections to the other players on his team, and now they were making him struggle. I realized, of course, that I wasn’t handling the situation well. After all, it was just a game, one game out of many he had played and would be playing during his baseball career, however short that might be.

I shrugged and verbalized my good intentions. It’s just a game, I said in a pinched voice to the line of parents.

Like hell it is, a mother responded.

I looked at her, startled.

Well, I tell my boys that it’s just a game, but I don’t believe it for a minute. It’s war.

Well, at least she was being honest and brave enough to voice her opinions. But war is such a strong word; it conjures up images of bloody battlefields. The game of baseball does, on the other hand, have its share of battles, heroes and cowards, turning points and deadlock duels, surrendering and fighting to the last man. Maybe baseball is a war, of sorts. It certainly is much more than just a game.

I didn’t really understand that until I started coaching. Coaching got me right up close and personal with my players. It forged connections with them that I didn’t expect, and opened a window into their hearts and minds, revealing sides of them I never would have known under any other circumstances. I found that my macho, swaggering, smart-ass braggarts were tender-hearted (just watch a 12–year old play with his sibling), scared young boys. They had fragile egos and big dreams. They wanted people to be proud of them, they needed people to believe in them, and they longed to feel successful. They wanted to be greater than they were physically capable of being. They wanted to be a Sandberg or a Derek Jeter or a Nolan Ryan when they were still trapped in the body and mind of a 12–year–old. Their expectations of themselves far exceeded any that their coach or parent might have. As a consequence, the errors and mistakes that are a necessary part of any learning process became their failures, taking on bigger–than–life dimensions. After all, their baseball heroes wouldn’t have pulled such a boner play, at least not one they could remember.

Nick struck out the next batter for the third out. Only the one run had scored. He jogged off the field and dropped his glove and his hat onto my lap. He shook his head.

I hope this doesn’t turn into a pitcher’s duel.

I handed him his batting glove and he pulled it on as he headed for the bench. He selected a helmet and fitted it over his ears. He picked up his bat and drifted over to the on–deck circle. He took a few easy swings, than a few serious swings timed to the pitcher as he warmed up. The catcher threw the last warm–up pitch down to second base, the umpire signaled he was ready for a batter, Nick checked his grip on his bat, took a deep breath, and stepped into the batter’s box.

Nick’s team lost that game, but, like all youth baseball games, the stakes exceeded a win or a loss; they included a journey of discovery and growth that each boy could make, if he chose.

*****

Chapter Two

So, You’re My Coach

I had decided not to coach again. It took too much energy, too much time, and was just too much of an uphill battle. Besides, my 13–year–old son, Nick, wanted to be on Bill’s team—he thought that way he might get on a good team. It was only a small insult referring to our less than stellar season the previous year.

I had served my purpose in the years I had coached him; he was ready to move on and that was fine with me. The thought of convincing a bunch of 13– and 14–year–old boys that I, being a woman, could be a credible baseball coach was more than enough to encourage me to plead Nick’s case to Bill. It wasn’t that Nick was a poor player; it was more that pitchers had to be split up among the teams, and parents had to be arm–twisted into coaching. There never seemed to be enough parents willing to take on the job, especially as the kids got older. The coaches had to know more about the game and deal with the kids who had formed attitudes and discovered their mouths.

My 11–year–old son, Peter, had been on the same team for two years and adored his coach, Jim. Peter was honest—he didn’t want to leave Jim’s team so that I could coach him. So my job as baseball coach was over. That was all right. I could relax more during the games, I could sleep at night, and I wouldn’t be obsessed by baseball for three months. Ted, my husband, certainly didn’t mind me retiring. Most of all, I could rest easy; my sons would be in the hands of good coaches.

It hadn’t always been that way. As a nine–year–old, Nick had landed on a team with too many players, and with a coach that had a pre–set agenda and too few rules. Like sharks at a feeding frenzy, the players feasted on any other player unlucky enough to make an error. They apparently thought that degrading other players would make themselves look better. Bats, helmets, gloves, and tantrums were thrown in displays of frustration and in anger over umpires’ calls. They were not a team, but a bunch of out–of–control boys getting away with it because that’s the way competitive boys are. It was pure bunk to cover an inability to maintain control.

Even worse, Nick played right field inning after inning in game after game. At that age, the kids needed to play various positions, both for their skill development and for their self–esteem. Nick had caught on to coaches’ frequent trick of playing their worst fielder in right field, and it hurt him, especially as he already had big time aspirations. My words rang hollow when I told him right fielders were important. He saw himself as a pitcher and an infielder, not a right fielder.

Over that summer his smile faded. He didn’t anticipate the games with the fervor he’d had at the beginning of the season. He quit practicing his pitching—what was the use when he knew the coach would never give him a chance? It was horrible to watch the joy go out of my child’s eyes as he gave up his dreams at age nine. For a kid, the present is everything; it never dawned on him that another year, and another coach might change everything.

We made it through that summer, but I vowed that it wouldn’t happen again. That vow, of course, caused me to stumble into coaching. I took on Nick’s fourth grade team.

Being on the receiving end, I knew what it felt like to watch a coach favor certain kids, starting with his own. I knew what I thought about those coaches. I didn’t want people thinking that way about my son or about me. I told Nick I would give him his chances, but I couldn’t favor him; I told him there might be times, to eliminate all possibility of favoritism, when I was harder on him than on others. I wouldn’t squash some kid’s love of playing baseball by not giving him his chance so that I could favor Nick.

In the years I’ve coached, I’ve held to my fairness rule; my sons had to earn their spots just like the other kids, and they had to do their share of sitting out. They were good players and they deserved to play where I’ve played them. Inevitably, I still ended up with a kid trying to justify his position in the field or batting order by complaining that my sons were in their positions because they were the coach’s sons. The boys hated this. They didn’t want people thinking that they’d been given a free ride. If anything, they worked harder at their positions to erase doubt. I didn’t like anyone thinking I was showing favoritism, but neither would I penalize my sons because they were my sons.

I wanted my teams to be a class act. I wanted the kids to be proud of their behavior and I wanted their parents to be proud of their behavior. I established simple and basic rules that my players had to follow or be benched. The players could get angry or upset at a play or call, but they could not throw their bat, helmet, or glove, or kick dirt in a display of anger. In they were called out on strikes on ball four in the dirt, they had to gracefully walk back to the bench and set their bat down. The next time they went to the plate, they were encouraged to vent their anger at the poor call by blasting the ball over the outfielder’s head. That was to be their revenge, and their focus.

If a player made an error or struck out at the plate, the other players were not to belittle him. They could tell him it was okay or that he’d do better the next time, but they were not to tell him he just cost them the game. A team doesn’t jell as a team until they support each other, and there is no support in blame. I also wanted the player that made the error to keep his head up, not hang it and kick the dirt. His salvation would come when he made a beautiful play on the next ball hit to him; he wouldn’t be able to do that if he was still thinking about his error.

If the umpire didn’t throw them out of the game for swearing, I would. That rule included name-calling and belittling the other team. It was rough when the opposing team threw out verbal insults, but I didn’t want my players sinking to that level, or being distracted by such garbage. I wanted them to make the other team regret their actions by playing that much harder.

I have to admit to letting a quiet damn slip out once in a while; the players near me would tease me unmercifully, and I would smile and say, You didn’t hear that. There were also a few select times when I would turn my back to the field and comment to the parents that I really wished I could kick something. It was hard for the boys to keep their mouths shut and their frustration contained. It was hard for me too. Seeing me struggle with keeping my own rule connected me to the boys on their own level. It brought us closer.

I insisted on good sportsmanship, win or lose. I didn’t want an arrogant smart-ass team when they won, and I didn’t want a whining, bellyaching team when they lost. Elation, yes. Disappointment, yes. Either way, they were to be gentlemen as they shook hands with the other team. They were definitely not to spit on their hands first.

I had a mandate I wanted them to follow. I didn’t want them to give up on themselves or the game, ever. I didn’t want them to be quitters. Even if it was impossible for them to win, I wanted them to try. I believed this attitude would pay off for them, in future games and in their lives off the field. Even when they got creamed, there was always a reason to be proud of a kid and of a team who tried.

My last rule always brought relief to the faces of my players. I wanted them to have fun. That didn’t mean that it was okay for them to horse around and cut up with each other. It meant that while they were working hard, they were also playing a game, and playing should be fun. If it became too life and death, it wasn’t going to be fun anymore. While I wanted them to play hard and give the game everything they had, I likewise wanted them to lighten up and enjoy playing. I also told them it was more fun playing when they played well, and to play well, they had to work hard. Of course, they told me that winning was more fun than losing. I could say I believed that it wasn’t winning or losing, but how they played the game, or that learning the skills and having fun on a summer’s night was what it was all about. I even believe that. But then again, I can’t deny, having won and lost games, that winning is more fun.

I rarely had to enforce my rules by benching a player. They accepted them. I think they actually liked them, at least most of the time. They were like children who secretly wanted their parents to lay down rules because the rules showed that the parents care. My rules showed that I cared about the boys, not just whether we won or lost. It also relieved them of the worry that if they made an error, they would be verbally assaulted. Even the best players knew that they were going to make a mistake sooner or later, and no one wanted their nose rubbed in it. The rules insured that it wouldn’t happen, or if it did, the offender would be disciplined and the activity stopped. While I can’t guarantee all negative comments stopped, they stopped within my hearing range.

Nick’s fourth grade team did okay, finishing at .500. His smile returned. He earned his chance to pitch and to play the infield, and because he got to play where he wanted, he didn’t mind playing his share of the outfield. He worked hard. His dreams returned and his skills improved. He wanted to make the most of his chance to play; he wanted to prove himself.

The following year we moved to a new community and I didn’t coach. Nick was an unknown on a team where the positions were already pretty much set. My heart sank as I watched him trudge out to right field inning after