The Ggame

By Albie Landwehr

Do you remember the sheer joy of playing catch in the yard or have fond memories involving baseball? Was baseball, like church, once a subject of intense discussion shared with family, friends, or total strangers transcending generations, gender, race, and economic status? Has it become far less important in your life? Have you ever wondered what issues drove a wedge between you and such joy and passion?

Paul is such a person whose once deep passion for the Game of baseball has eroded over the years by changes sidetracking its pure essence. The excitement of league pennant races has been replaced with wild card chases. Focus on key hitting and pitching stats has given way to PED usage and contract details. Can managing a youth league baseball team enable him to overcome these negative changes to the game and rediscover his love for the Game, or will his interest completely fall away? Having a team consisting of well-known biblical figures and a special player named Chris just might help.

Commingling laughs with a message that can be enjoyed by youngsters and adults alike, whether believers or non-believers, this novel blends biblical events, references, and characters humorously into the context of youth baseball as Paul attempts to reconnect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490813561

Albie Landwehr

With a once deep passion for baseball, golf, church, and all things Wake Forest, let’s just say Albie has loved and lost. Despite being a finance executive, he brings creativity and humor into all situations. His acting credits include the pivotal window shopping scene in The Firm, which had to be reshot as he was distracting attention from Tom Cruise, the charades playing audience participant in Godspell on Broadway, and the comic cohost in children’s ministries. While he has reconnected with many of the loves of his life, he nonetheless still shares the unique agony that accompanies being a die-hard Demon Deacon.

Book preview

Chapter One

In the beginning, there was baseball. The debate whether it was created as a purely American game or evolved from the primordial soup of English cricket or rounders rages on but misses the point. Likewise, it doesn’t matter if Doubleday is wrongly given credit or if Cartwright’s Knickerbocker Rules, well, rule. The theory it was originated by Native American Indians is just too ironic if true. Think about it – the island they sold for $24 in trinkets produces the greatest lore in the game taken from their culture. Murderers Row. Da Bums. The Shot heard ‘round the World. The Bronx Bombers. The Miracle Mets. Oh well, at least they have tax free casinos as retribution.

The Game in its essence is pure and discernable, unlike cricket. It provides simple, yet infallible, truths that are sustained through generations and which can be embraced by all peoples.

Or so I used to believe.

Let’s be real and start with the basics. Who holds Little League baseball tryouts in the beginning of February? I don’t care if we are in Atlanta, the first town that comes to mind to many folks when asked to name a town in the deep South; it is down right cold in the beginning of February.

I know the major leaguers get started at this time of year, but then again, they are in Florida and Arizona. Plus, they are getting paid for it. For a parent with a ten year old, there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend four hours in overcast, dreary, thirty-eight degree weather watching my child, much less the other hundred or so kids of other people, participate in poorly organized baseball drills. Did I mention the added joy of beginning at eight o’clock in the morning on a Saturday?

I also feel sorry for the youngsters. They get to stand around waiting for their turns at one of four performance stations. The first drill is throwing and catching skills with an adult, followed by the ability to field a ground ball and a pop fly. The third drill is the one that all the kids look forward to – getting to bat. Even if it is against a pot bellied sixty-year old who still gets a thrill with fooling the little hitters with his wicked curve ball that he proudly proclaims would have baffled the best batters in the Show, if only he’d gotten a chance. Never mind that he never played beyond Pony League when he was a boy much less at any professional level. The final drill is to run from home plate to third while the managers and their assistant coaches diligently time each potential draft pick.

Do they organize these drills to run simultaneously to lessen the length of time of forced exposure to the winter’s elements that the kids and their loving parents have to endure? Of course not. Each manager and their coaches want to see each player perform each task. How else to make a proper evaluation of talent and potential? So, while one kid throws a ball back and forth ten times, the other hundred or so stand around and wait for their name to be called announcing that it is their turn. The excitement the kids feel at the beginning of the process quickly dissolves into sheer boredom. At least they got some sensation of excitement; for the parents, it is all boredom. Keeping a hundred or so bored kids in some sort of organized fashion is like rolling a ball uphill. A very large ball. Sure, the league commissioners, who double as the team managers, threaten to expel any kid from the league who gets out of hand if they misbehave. But, the players know that such a threat doesn’t apply to them if they were one of the coach’s favorites from last year’s team. They also quickly figure out it doesn’t apply to anyone with an ounce of talent. Only the newcomers or those destined to ride the pine behind the favorites stay in line. Like my son, Bart.

I claimed I feel somewhat sorry for the kids; in truth, I feel far sorrier for myself and the other parents. The kids at least get to participate in a drill every hour or so. We parents get to sit and then, for real excitement, sit some more. Did I mention that the bleachers were made of aluminum? Did I mention how frozen one’s butt becomes seated on such a thing in the middle of a cold February day? For hours on end, the only activity I attempted to become engaged in was getting warm. And, I failed as miserably at that as did the redheaded boy who attempted to catch a ball with his face.

I can see the day coming when the ordeal that is Little League baseball tryouts is treated on the same level as the NFL combine, if only on a local level. Hey, the local sportscaster has to report something that the sports viewer hasn’t already heard talked to death on the various ESPN or Fox sports shows or, for the real diehards who proudly conduct themselves without pretense of having any sort of life, the Golf Channel, MLB, NFL, or NBA cable networks. Of course, if you missed the story, there’s always the summary repeated every few minutes on the dreaded crawl along the bottom. Try as you might to focus on what’s being said, watch a highlight, or God forbid, actually watch a sporting event live in its entirety, even after years of intense training and conscious effort, your eyeballs are automatically drawn to the movement of letters across the TV screen.

I can almost hear the local news anchor say,

ANCHORMAN: For an update on today’s big tryouts and ranking of the players, we turn to our own Scott Caldwell…

As if anyone else would have him I can’t help thinking to myself as I think to myself. Hey, a guy has to pass the time in some manner, doesn’t he? Daydreaming and having conversations with myself serve that purpose. The conversations are the most fun as I’ve never lost an argument or debate. It’s amazing how eloquently, succinctly, and orderly I can state my case when it is my left side of my brain making a presentation to the right side of my brain. It’s amazing how differently it is expressed once my tongue gets involved.

REPORTER: This is Scott Caldwell for Channel 7’s Eye-On-The-Ball Sports. As spring is trying to be sprung, youths throughout northern Georgia have picked up their bats and gloves, laced their shoes, many without adult help, and gathered together at their local parks for the annual rite of spring – Little League baseball tryouts. Competition for spots among the elite teams is expected to be fierce this year as the continuing sharp increase in population in the last twenty-four months, particularly the recently Hispanic neighborhoods in the north portion of the county, has brought more talented players into the area.

ANCHORMAN: Scott, who do you like going number 1 overall?

REPORTER: "Well, this game is all about pitching. I wouldn’t be surprised if the teams with the top draft picks don’t all go for kids who can at least find the plate. Brandon Jackson is one such player. He combines a 47-mile an hour fastball with a variety of curve balls and is rumored to be working on a slider. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t snatched at the top of the draft.

ANCHORMAN: You don’t think the pressure of following in the shadows of his older brother, Brett, will be a problem?

REPORTER: Brett was, of course, the MVP of this league for three years running. But, like everyone else in this game, Father Time catches up with you, and it’s time to move up to Pony or Dixie League play. Obviously, the bar has been set very high for the younger Brandon, but he’s a cocky enough little son-of-a-gun to go out and make a name for himself.

ANCHORMAN: So, he truly is following in his brother’s footsteps. Who else do you like in today’s draft?

REPORTER: The real buzz is for a new kid to the area named Julio Rodriquez from Canton Springs by way of the Dominican Republic, as best anyone can ascertain, to be the steal of this draft. His birth certificate says he’s eleven, but several other draft analysts are pegging his age to be 14 or 15. I am proud to provide this Channel 7 Eye-On-The-Ball Sports video exclusive that we caught on camera before the start of today’s tryouts. As you can see, this van pulls into the parking lot and parks taking up two spaces. The person getting out from behind the wheel on the driver’s side front door is clearly Julio. And, as we zoomed in on the car, you can see there is no adult in the car or getting out of the car.

ANCHORMAN: What do you conclude from this, Scott?

REPORTER: Well, Tom, first and foremost, I hope, as undoubtedly do the coaches, that he has more ability to throw the ball between the edges of the plate than he has parking his van between the lines. But, perhaps more telling is this likely means Julio has his full license. Otherwise, he would be required to have an adult in the car with him in order to drive on a learner’s permit. If he has his full license, then he has to be at least sixteen playing in a twelve year old league.

ANCHORMAN: Wow, just the opposite problem China is having with their women …errr….make that, girl gymnasts. Just to be clear, Scott, are you sure he isn’t just driving illegally?

REPORTER: You, of course, are asking if he is an undocumented driver. You have raised an interesting point; however, if you look closely, the vehicle has a personalized license plate – JUL RULZ – which would support a notion that it is Julio’s personal vehicle.

ANCHORMAN: Fascinating exclusive, Scott, that’s the type of cutting edge, investigative reporting that makes Channel 7 the station that it is. No wonder you were the recipient of this year’s North Georgia Community Magazine’s favorite Best Jock Mouth award as voted by the local readers. Now, what about power hitters? Do you see any of them going high in the draft?

REPORTER: Well, Tom, the thing that makes Little League baseball so unique and exciting is that usually your best pitcher is the team’s best hitter. So, in this respect, you are going to see some big bats taken off the board early as teams draft those strong arms.

I’ve always wondered when that dynamic changes in the baseball career. You see major league pitchers who can’t even wave the bat at the ball and absolutely embarrass themselves in the weak effort. Yet, you know at the age of 12, they were the stud on their team. They threw the best, fielded the best, ran the best, and hit the best. How did the hitting skills atrophy so completely and totally?

ANCHORMAN: Do you foresee any teams trading up?

REPORTER: The Little League draft is, if anything, unpredictable. You never know what a wily manager will do to move up in the draft and snag that difference maker.

ANCHORMAN: Great report, Scott. Viewers join us tomorrow for Scott’s tips on which players to select for your fantasy Little League baseball team.

A foul ball that clanged on the metal bleachers snapped me out of my daydream. I was more than a little perturbed to be disturbed as there were plenty of parents seated around where the ball landed. Surely, one of them could have caught the ball. Then again, I now understood where the lack of talent came from that I was seeing showcased on the field. Too bad for many of these kids that their athletic apple didn’t fall far from their parents’ trees.

The real reason I wished someone had caught the ball was so that I could be spared from that awful sound of baseball hitting aluminum. It made me realize that the batting skills were about to begin and I had over an hour of listening to the unmistakable ping of leather on metal. When they say there’s nothing like the sweet sound of the crack of a bat, they weren’t joking. I’ve never been a fan of aluminum baseball bats, and that’s before I had a near coronary when I discovered that the minimum sales price of the hottest bats is $300. And, for the real fool who has much more money than sense, the sky’s the limit. I wonder what the correlation is between the price of a bat and a youngster’s ability to make contact with a thrown ball. My guess is slim or none and slim has left the building.

Personally, I never liked them because you can’t get any wood on the ball.

But the real show is watching the managers and coaches in the North Wyngate Youth Baseball Association perform. They go about their duties with equal intensity and importance as you’d see in any professional league draft. Of course, they have the added pressure of essentially fulfilling the joint roles of head scout, general manager, coach, and head of baseball operations. At least they get to take off the head of baseball operations’ hat once they’ve identified the team mother who then becomes responsible for after game snacks. They dutifully make notes on each player’s performance looking for those nuances in bat speed, arm strength, ability to run the bases, and general baseball savvy that differentiate a kid who wants to play ball from a true player. They pride themselves with their astute and complete knowledge of the game and their innate abilities to select players guaranteed to make their team champions and, in turn, themselves championship managers.

If you ask them why they volunteer to manage a team, they will tell you it’s because it was a game they loved as a kid and wanted to share that joy with the youth of today and it’s a way to give back to the community. Blah, blah. Yeah, right. These are the same guys that read online answers to standard interview questions and then repeat them verbatim to the HR personnel wherever they are attempting to get a job. For some reason, they never seem to get the offer and they can’t seem to grasp why.

The other common answer is to spend time with their child. For the most part, there are only two scenarios that occur to make this have a kernel of truth. It holds true when the child in question happens to a true player and not just a kid who wants to play ball. Of course, this allows the manager-parent to live vicariously through their gifted child and relive the glories, although many decades faded, of their own all-star Little League careers.

The second scenario is almost the inverse of the first. These parents manage or coach because little Timmy or Johnny, Jr. want to play ball and hasn’t yet blossomed into the player dad knows that he secretly is. As a manager for sure, or as a coach, whose work with the manager many would perceive as borderline brown nosing, the parent can guarantee the kid a place in the starting lineup where his child’s true potential will undoubtedly be recognized unlike his own when he was a mere lad relegated to the bench or even worse, right field, never to be discovered by the big league scouts.

Of course, if I was being truthful, I’m not much different. But, truthful introspective isn’t one of my strong suits. Just ask my wife, she’ll be glad to fill you in on the details of all of my non-strong suits. Nonetheless, having been around the game since the age of five, I know the real reason some of these parents manage these teams. It’s their shot at the big time. You hear about it all the time in the lead stories in the internet blogs that have made newspapers even more obsolete than twenty-four hour cable news stations. Surely you’ve seen articles like this one:

LOCAL LITTLE LEAGUE MANAGER NAMED YANKEE COACH

After leading the Mighty Titans to a third straight 10-12 year old local Little League Championship, and despite a bitterly disappointing first round elimination from the Little League World Series, Ted Bronski was today named the new third base coach of the New York Yankees. Given his Little League career coaching record of 62 wins against only 14 losses, the move was considered by many, most particularly Ted, as long overdue. Known to himself as a brilliant baseball strategist, Ted can rapidly pull his ear, touch his nose, touch his cap, wipe his hand across his chest and scratch parts of his body no decent man would do in public in a seemingly random manner with the best of third base coaches. Deflecting the criticism that scratching is the predominate signal in his repertoire, Giving signs is a complex and very technical skill required to make the other team think we are conveying any information of importance to our players. I can’t help it if wearing a cup is uncomfortable, an excited Ted told this reporter, Only now when I scratch, it will be under the watchful eyes of Jeter and the rest of the Yankee nation. Despite how that sounded, a Yankees’ spokesperson noted, Ted is not expected to create a problem in the Yankee dugout…

I laugh at my own joke as this has never happened, but, now that I think about it, you do hear of such things happening in the world of college basketball. Amazing how many high school coaches and fathers get assistant coaching positions at the same college their star player or son surprisingly decides to contribute their All American one-and-done talents. If there’s no coaching position available, there’s always the local job regardless of the status of the economy in places like Durham or Lexington at substantially higher than minimum wage pay.

All of this makes my becoming a Little League manager all the more strange.

Chapter Two

I don’t know who was more nervous awaiting the phone call the following day. I looked expectantly over to the phone every few minutes in a futile attempt to invoke a heretofore unknown super power whereby my mere glance could compel the phone to ring. My wife hovered around the kitchen staying busy but accomplishing nothing of significance. My son was downstairs playing a game on his Wii. I was pretty confident that while my wife and I were running neck and neck in the nervousness competition, my son wasn’t even in the game. He just didn’t understand. It was only The Call that would determine which team fate had landed him. Given a good coach, his potential career in baseball would be launched. Given a bad coach, like the one he had for basketball, and he would forever be doomed to a sporting career consisting of playing soccer.

As I awaited the call, I couldn’t help but recall my first baseball tryout. It wasn’t for an organized Little League team. It was for something much more important - the Sunday after mass baseball game with my cousins. With both parents being from Catholic families, needless to say we had little trouble fielding two teams.

I can still remember being nominated to play in the game. To make it even more memorable, I was nominated by my older brother, Champ. Now, there is nothing more empowering and exciting than having your older sibling recognize your abilities. It is the true coming of age event, well, at least until high school, or if you meet a morally challenged girl, late junior high.

Prior to this historic moment, I can remember feeling like I was in kid purgatory each and every Sunday afternoon. After the backyard picnic, my dad and uncles immediately went down to the basement to start their card game. It was strictly off limits to anyone not bringing their own beer. There were two types of beer allowed, and only two types, and it was the source of many a dispute among them – especially after several beers. Forget the less filling, great taste argument that is for folks light in the loafers. The only beers these men consumed were Ballantine and Rheingold, significantly, the beer sponsors of the Yankees and the Mets, respectively. The great tradition of the Yankees versus the upstart Mets; the American League versus the National League superiority challenge – all expressed by the simple choice of beer that you drank. I wonder how many of them made the switch to Schaefer when it became the official sponsor of the Mets? I’m sure there was the occasional lament over the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn for LA, and, truthfully, I never understood why there wasn’t an equal outpouring of distress that the Giants had left for San Francisco. I’m equally sure the topic of whether Whitey Ford or Sandy Koufax was the greatest left handed pitcher of all time was debated on more than one occasion. It might have been a debate between Whitey