By Jim Coffman

By 7 a.m. Saturday, when my picnicking co-conspirator arrived at our home park, some of the prime spots were gone. But he moved quickly – busting out crime scene tape, small posters and clips. And soon he had set up a perfect perimeter. It was close to the area where the trophies would be handed out but not too close. The signage was clear and concise – there would be no doubting our claim. And we had a wonderful mix of shade and sun, or at least we would have, if the day hadn’t been so overcast.
Our T-ball (and coach-pitch of course – don’t ever forget the coach-pitch) seasons ended with a picnic and awards ceremony last week. And somehow the event has evolved into a sort of miniature North Side land grab. I suppose it’s a chance to play Sooner (those enterprising Oklahomans who, when given the chance to settle some land north of Texas left early and grabbed the prime real estate) for a few hours anyway. People arrive early in the morning on the day of the event (I’m guessing some even get out there the night before) and, yes, string up lengths of the distinctive yellow plastic from tree to garbage can to tree to try to ensure their teams have the perfect picnic experience.

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Posted on August 10, 2007

By Jim Coffman

My almost-six-year-old does not suffer summer gladly. When she is overheated, Alana lets us know, vociferously and persistently. So I must admit I felt some relief when her T-Ball season came to a close last Sunday shortly after high noon, if for no other reason than it meant we could go find some shade and kick back a bit.
Well, we couldn’t kick back too much because one of us parents had to take Alana’s two-year-old sister Jenna home for her nap. And although Alana then wolfed down a snack (one of those lovely, individually wrapped Rice Krispies Treats that taste like they have been marinated in saccharine for a week), something had to be done about lunch. And that something would have to involve a restaurant not afraid to burn through as many fossil fuels as it took to keep us nice and cool. It was important that mom or dad stay out with the older kids (it ended up being me) because our two-year-old’s best chance for actually sinking into sleepy time was keeping our other kids as far away from the house as possible.
Earlier at the game, the primary problem was that the areas where spectators gather around the Rookie League diamond (and the areas around the benches) are just about devoid of sizable vegetation. Check that, there is one decent-sized tree down the right-field line and by the second inning or so just about all the parents of kids on both teams were huddled together underneath it. We had come prepared – with a water bottle and a back-up – and every inning or so we not only had Alana guzzling down all the H2O she could hold, we also had her cooling herself off with water poured on the inside of her wrists and on her neck.

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Posted on August 3, 2007

By Jim Coffman

We won our first-round playoff game a lot of runs to a little on Saturday. Noah’s and my 8-and-under Dodgers were playing a team we had tied during the regular season so the result represented some progress. On the other hand, the head coach of the opposing team had apparently left early for summer vacation. And if the coach was gone that meant one of the best players (the teams I’ve coached have yet to face a squad where the coach’s kid didn’t qualify) was absent as well. I don’t want to go overboard but it was goofy the guy wasn’t there no matter what the excuse. How do you coach one of these teams for almost three months and then when it’s time to sprint to the finish line, you’re nowhere to be found?
Yikes.
In about the fourth inning I heard one of our kids ask what the score was and then repeat it loudly/incredulously/derisively. It was that special mocking tone that some kids this age so endearingly employ altogether too frequently. I promptly called the squad together and told them sternly we wouldn’t be talking about the score any more, that first and foremost we are all about good sportsmanship. And the kids abided by my decree – for about a half inning.

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Posted on July 27, 2007

By Jim Coffman

During one particularly memorable practice at Winnemac Park earlier this season, I stopped just before throwing a pitch as one of the kids yelled “Look at that!” Soon enough another voice shouted “It’s coming in from the outfield!” and I turned in time to see a blur we would later identify as Peter “Hustle” Cottontail racing onto the infield dirt. He had apparently made his way down the right field line after being flushed out of one of the lush gardens that partially ring the little diamonds at the unusual little park where we practice.
The rabbit went through the infield toward the backstop like a base-runner who would not be denied – if that base-runner had for some reason decided to run around the bases the wrong way. It went ahead and passed right between me and the kid who was taking batting practice before reaching a patch of grass beyond the third-base line that was not at that point occupied (Safe!). The kids all seemed to sense that the thing to do at that point was to leave the poor animal alone. After all, there are rules for this sort of situation . . . I vaguely recall something along the lines of . . . Remember kids, if city animals are appropriately afraid of you, you’re not allowed to scream at or chase them, unless of course they are pigeons. If they do not seem afraid, they probably have rabies and if you go near them you’ll probably have to get shots in your stomach.

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Posted on July 20, 2007

By Jim Coffman

The seasons are winding down and a question begs an answer: Will the kids remember much of anything from all of this? I’m hoping my daughter Alana locked a little something positive into that part of her brain last Saturday during her latest T-Ball showdown. Then again, it’s most likely all of this stuff will fade away relatively quickly. As opposed to something really important that is coming up fast – Friday of this week is T-minus-a-month-and-10-days until Alana’s sixth birthday and our official alert status is Orange. My wife has made a reservation for a gymnastics party, a preliminary guest list has been drawn up, and we hope to schedule some time next week to purchase invites. An official menu will follow.

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Posted on July 12, 2007

By Jim Coffman

At our most recent practice we wrapped things up with a little scrimmage. There were only a half-dozen Dodgers on hand but one coach pitched, the other played some outfield and we put a ballgame together. My eight-year-old son Noah started it off by hitting a hard ground ball into a wide open expanse out in right field. As he raced to third, one of his teammates retrieved the ball and ran all the way through the infield toward the third-base line. Noah rounded third and stood there a few steps beyond the base, oblivious to the fact his teammate, who by now was moving slowly (stealthily even), had the ball hidden in his glove. A couple moments later his teammate stepped right up and tagged him on the chest. In the process his glove caught the bottom of the mask in front of the batting helmet and brought it down so it made contact with Noah’s face. He became upset, saying the mask had “really hurt” his lip. My unsympathetic reaction was that he was more upset about being tagged out. That did not go over well.
At our most recent game, one of my coaching counterparts asked one of his cohorts to switch with him and work on the right side of the diamond during their defensive half of an inning. In the first three T-Ball innings of our league’s hybrid games (the last four frames are coach-pitch), two coaches can stand in the outfield to help their fielders. He thought his son, who would be playing on the right side, might need some assistance and it would be better if it came from someone other than his dad. I knew exactly what he was talking about . . . but it didn’t mean I would employ a similar plan.

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Posted on July 6, 2007

By Jim Coffman

The superficial ways girl T-Ball players are different than boys become apparent at practice. For one thing, it appears the boys have more of an aptitude for careers in archeology.
“I don’t know what it is with you guys and the dirt,” said an exasperated assistant coach at my almost-six-year-old daughter Alana’s most recent training session. He made the statement in lieu of what would have been at least his fifth admonition to “get up out of the dust already.” Fortunately the wind wasn’t up and therefore the boys’ little excavations weren’t resulting in decreased air quality. There have been seriously breezy days as the season has progressed but still nothing like the Great Opening Day Dust Storm of 2007.
Alana and the two other girls on her team – who all occasionally kick up a little dirt but don’t dive in like the fellas – don’t necessarily pay better attention than the boys . . . Then again I suppose it is most accurate to say the more attentive boys zone out about as frequently as their female teammates. But the girls definitely don’t share many of the boys’ commitment to building the best darn dirt pile anyone in these parts has ever seen.

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Posted on June 29, 2007

By Jim Coffman

Until recently, if you had asked me to detail my dream Father’s Day (i.e. during my first half-dozen or so years of paternity), the afternoon segment would have sandwiched televised sports around a delicious nap. Lately the nap continues to be a priority (I didn’t get one this year and later I was ready for bed way too early – an elemental part of me needs to at least be able to stay awake for the 9 o’clock news), but live sports are replacing the ones on TV. And I’m OK with that.
I’d better be. I’d be stunned if my Father’s Day weekends didn’t include some sort of youth baseball competition for – conservatively – the next decade. I have mentioned before in this space that my eight-year-old, Noah, is obsessed with the games we play in our league’s Junior Division. His almost-six-year-old sister has jumped right into T-Ball this spring and summer and is good at it. Unless I’m completely misinterpreting the situation (always a possibility of course), she’s also enjoying it quite a bit. And our little bitty toddler Jenna, who of course has oodles of baseball/softball potential (for one thing, she’s showing every indication of being lefthanded!) is only a couple months past two.

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Posted on June 22, 2007

By Jim Coffman

I didn’t want to disappoint my eight-year-old son, especially in the afterglow of a hard-fought sporting endeavor. But I decided I had to draw the line: “Noah, I think mini-Oreos on top of mini-Chips Ahoy after a bag of Cheetoh’s would be a bit excessive.” OK, perhaps my exact quote wasn’t quite that droll. It was more along the lines of, “Take it easy on the snacks would you? We’re having dinner after this.”
Of course, at that point he was already well past the point of no nibbling return. And when he didn’t exactly chow down on the delicious dinner his mother prepared for him about an hour later, the standard “Next time don’t spoil your appetite with so much junk” speech was right there for me.

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Posted on June 15, 2007

By Jim Coffman

The clouds were intense. They didn’t bode well for the successful completion of my daughter’s T-Ball game on Sunday, but they were still something to see – truly mountainous cumulus confections. They rushed in over the park as the first couple innings played out and sure enough, the rain began to fall in the third.
Soon tiny raindrops felt more like big ol’ smooches and the umpire called a halt to the proceedings. It wasn’t clear if the game was canceled or simply delayed but the other team fled the field like they had just heard the siren song of the ice cream truck. When the precipitation quickly eased and play could have resumed (it simply continued without any sort off delay on all the other surrounding diamonds) my daughter Alana’s Red Sox, most of whom had lingered near the diamond, no longer had an opponent. So I am hereby officially declaring Sunday’s contest a forfeit victory.

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Posted on June 7, 2007