Old Guys, Orange Aprons, and Potty Talk

My dad truly is Superdad.  He was an athlete, and he looks like he could still play linebacker for San Jose St. He is a bread-winner, provider, and my biggest fan.  He's passed on how to throw a football, catch a fly ball, and how to foul a guy hard in hoops.   There were life lessons in everything, including the myriad of crappy chores assigned to me every weekend.  Unlike the Karate Kid, I didn't get a damn thing out of them except callouses, lost time with my buddies growing up, and use of the VW.  I can read a how-to-book as well as the next guy, but I'm fully exposed the minute I walk into Home Depot.

I can follow directions.  I've built bikes, cribs, and even put together a small computer network for our office.  I'm a relatively educated guy, and that's what makes this so embarrassingly sad for my father.  My recent problem was a crapper.  You pulled the handle, and it wouldn't flush.  I know how to deal with obstructions. Don't tell me you haven't had to reach for the stick of shame sitting next to the bowl a time or two.  It's quite possibly the easiest tool known to man.

Two things about this problem: (1) it wasn't me, and (2) this was a problem of function and not from too much fiber.  My post-golf Sunday afternoon slumber was rudely interrupted by the panicked call of an 8 year old princess.  I opened the back of the toilet, jiggled some stuff, and determined the connector to the upwards pipe water feeder tube looked like it might have some wet-rot. Incrdi-mom said we should call a plumber, but I knew I had this.  Off to the Depot to get some parts.

I walked in rocking Euro-awesomeness...white sunglasses, slips with ankle socks, pink golf shirt, grey plaid shorts with my white belt, and my long hair hanging out of my golf visor.  I ignored the disapproving look from the WWII era greeter, and found the plumbing aisle all by myself (I can read after all).  I knew I was screwed the minute I made the right turn onto Aisle 27.  

There was precisely 100 yards of plumbing stuff.  Apparently shit, or more appropriately getting rid of shit, is big business.  I spent an ungodly amount of my precious free time trying to figure out what I needed by myself.  We had house guests coming and I needed to get that crapper flowing in 45 minutes or less or I would have to let them use MY personal throne...oh...hell...no.  So I did what no man wants to do...I succumbed to that testicle-punch doorbell thingy and rung for help.  When the orange strobe light started flashing I knew I would sincerely regret the move.

I waited for a few minutes acting cool like it wasn't me who pressed the button of shame, and pretended to peruse the aisle of stoppers, handles, and gaskets.  I had just about given up when around the corner comes my nightmare.  Into to Aisle 27 turned a 75 year-old ex-marine with perfectly cropped white flat-top.  He was rocking comfortable work boots, blue jeans with a crease, a light flannel shirt in 100 degree weather, and that unmistakable orange apron. 

This is not Milt, but I found this on Google in 10 seconds.  Must be a uniform.

Milton (from his name tag) looks me up and down with a disapproving look.  "Howdy" pops out of my mouth like I'm riding the ol' range.  What the F was that...howdy?  Milt senses my fear.   "I'm Milt ... you the one that rung the pussy bell?" Okay, he really said "can I help you", but I knew what he meant with that overly helpful tone.  I can tell this guy knows everything about home repair from the massive amount of flair on his apron.  Milt doesn't like long hairs, guys that don't shave on the weekends, or guys that make time to play golf.  Golf is a waste of four hours that could be dedicated to a home project, and slips are worn at the gym when a real man walks buck-naked from the showers to his locker, towel around his neck, with his junk swinging uncomfortably about.  Milt is a man who has lots of tools and knows what they are all called.  I'm the devil in pink. 

Milt asks what's wrong, and I proceed to act out the toilet situation.  Think charades with sound effects.   I explain in no less than 15 gestures, a few body poses, and several air-drawings what I think I need.  First thing out of his mouth ... "rectangle or irregular?"  Oh no...what is he talking about?  I know for a fact Milt was screwing with me because all toilets are square...right?  I tried to buy myself a minute ignoring the question and stumbling stupidly about talking potty talk.  I looked at the product I held in my hand that I'd pulled off the shelf before he got there and it said "Universal Toilet Handle...Fits BOTH Square and Oval Toilets."  Thank God for good packaging.  I knew it wouldn't matter so I confidently guessed "square" (it's actually an oval).   Milt knew I was bullshitting and he was going to have some fun.  

Milt asked me a series of questions I could not comprehend about water pressure, gaskets, raw materials, and finishes.  I calmly nodded and blurted out something I'd heard my old man say many times...."I'm planning on overhauling the guts."  The difference is my dad knows what the guts actually are composed of.  To Milt it just made Milt look at me like I was a little boy dressed for a tea-party.  Milt snatched some stuff out of a few bins, and handed me $20 of parts I had no idea if I needed.  There were flappers, chains, handles, and gaskets.  "You ever done this before" he asked.  I said "no," but the package he'd handed me said "Level 3 of 10" on the "Home Depot Idiot Home Improvement Scale."  I can handle a damn 3/10 any day.  Milt chuckled a disapproving I-hate-pink-shirt-white sunglasses wearing-cell phone internet surfing-yuppies in my aisle laugh.  He says, "don't forget to turn the water off before you start" as he walked away with a look that screamed he couldn't wait to tell all the guys in the back about me. I bolted outta there like I'd stolen all that gut-fixing-gasket stuff.  For the record, I knew to turn off the damn water.

I was right, I could handle a 3/10, but what I can't handle are any more trips to Home Depot.  So to my awesome dad, who literally built a freaking house I say, "thanks for teaching me ALMOST everything I needed to know about being a man" and why didn't you tell me orange aprons are my Kryptonite.

SuperCoach, and Little League Parents

It's the hardest second job ever.  The money sucks with horrible pay (as in nada), and in reality you'll spend plenty of money on stuff for the kids and get shorted by the parents but you don't care.  If you do it right, you'll spend tons of hours working for clients who don't really know what they want.  With that said, moms and dads have been sneaking out of work early year after year for pleasure of spending time coaching kids at the fields, courts, and pools for the love of their kids and the game.

Let's meet SuperCoach.

Let's start with a little history as youth sports have evolved over the years.  In my youth, we rode our bikes to practice with our gloves threaded over the handlebars, and our cleats tied together hanging over our necks.  Practice unis consisted of blue jeans, a concert tee-shirt, and of course, your team's dusty adjustable mesh-backed lid.    We would show up to the high school field and wait for them to finish.  We would and take batting practice off the one dad who could make it in time, eat sunflower seeds, and spit like the pros.  We had a bag of a few bats we all shared, and some crusty old helmets that contained little padding, and smelled like gym socks or worse. I can't remember seeing a piece of new equipment in a bag after my first year of little league.

Today, there are at least four or five coaches for each baseball team (7-8 for football).  The kids show up wearing practice uniforms, Oakley sunglasses, $200+ composite bats, customized flat-brimmed hats, and batting gloves hanging out of their back pockets.  They practice on pristine fields with grass infields, covered dugouts, and have scoreboards tracking pitch counts.  They don't ride their bikes to the field, but rather are dropped off by minivan or SUV.  These kids are big-leaguers from the start...and that's just in little league.  There are travel ball teams that have better swag than the Pittsburgh Pirates, and they'll fly across country to play in tournaments.  To put it simply...Little League is the new "Big Leagues."  The thing is, they're not the big leagues...this stuff is just for fun and we just can't forget that fact (more below).

Super Coach gets one or maybe two official practice days a week to mold his group of kids into a winning machine (or at least make the kids into players that can run the bases counterclockwise), but will often schedule time on the weekends or whenever he can to help the kids develop at the local batting cages.  Super Coach has to sneak out of the office early on game day to prep the field, throw whiffle-ball batting practice till his arm falls off, and then wrangle this gaggle of cats into game readiness.  The thing is Super Coach loves the game, his kid, the the other kids, and is good friends with that 4-eyed ump that blows every call.  In little league, the baseball isn't the hard part...often times its those behind the fence that makes life difficult for Super Coach and the kids.

Look around your stands at the next game...you'll see some of these folks in front of you, next to you, or it might just be you:

Day-Care Parent.  These parents drop their kids off a few minutes early, and often show up late to pick up.  They barely slow down as they kick their kid out of the side of the minivan on their way to something they actually care about.  Their kids will miss practice for Cub Scouts, band practice, or just because practice is far away and they just aren't feeling it.  Day-Care Parent never works with his or her kid at home, but whines the loudest to know why Junior isn't playing well, playing enough, or having a great time.  Why can't my kid catch?  Well, have you ever practiced with him...SuperCoach already knows the answer, but asks anyway.  Day-Care Parent skips lots of games, but loves the fact they get 6-8 hours of day-care a week for the price of registration.

MLB Dad.  MLB dad thinks Junior, at 10, is going to the "Bigs."  News Flash to MLB Dad...the best player in [insert your town name here] is not going to the Major Leagues.  I was at the gym several years back and a friend approached me and said he wanted to introduce me to a guy whose kid was going to play college baseball.  My friend thought I might have some advice for this passionate baseball dad being a former player.  This dad told me all about his son, his travel ball team, and the fact his son was playing year round and would play more than 90 baseball games that year.  My first thought...that sucks for that kid, what about soccer, football, basketball or swimming? Anyway, this young man had both a personal hitting and pitching coach, and this Superdad was "pretty sure he would choose college over the draft."  Holy cow, was I talking to the father of the next Ken Griffy, Jr. (Bryce Harper for you young people)?  Was this some phenom who would be called on the first day of the upcoming Amateur draft?  Nope...this Incredikid was 12!  Yup, 12 freaking years old with hitting and pitching coaches? MLB Dad's kid looks in the stands after every pitch, never has a fun time, and doesn't even smile after a win.  MLB Dad can't keep his mounth shut, and tries to coach Junior during every at-bat from the stands.  MLB Dad lives in Fantasy F-ing Land, and whether he knows it or not the pressure is killing his poor kid, and his kid will hate him, the game, or both if he keeps pushing him.

Ex-Player Dad.   Ex-Player Dad knows the game, and how it should be played, and just can't come to grips with flat hats no matter how hard he tries.  Ex-Player Dad doesn't like showy players, and learned the game from watching Pete Rose on the This Week in Baseball. Getting dirty is how the game is played, and Ex-Player Dad cares more about seeing hustle than success, but beams with pride when he sees his kid play the game the "right way."  Ex-Player Dad doesn't think about his kid going pro because he knows the odds, and moreover that luck and opportunity (i.e. staying healthy) are as important as talent and drive. Ex-Player Dad knows if it's going to happen, it won't be because of him, but it he won't be a bar to progress either.  It is a delicate balance of providing the kid the platform for success and the occasional shove, but preserving his desire to play the game.  Push too hard, it's over by high school.  If the kid is going to make it, you'll know it, and it will be because he loves the feeling of hitting the ball, making the great play, or throwing the 3-2 fastball for a called third...not because you lit him up after a strikeout looking.  The kids that make it love taking batting practice, playing catch, or just watching the game.  

The Proudies.  The reality is most of us fall somewhere in between on the spectrum above. We want the best for our kids, and try to give them every opportunity, but we recognize the realities of the situation. The bottom line is all parents should be beaming with pride when his or her kid steps to the plate, free-throw line, or up on the block.  If your kid hits home runs, dominates on the mound, wins every race, or bombs three-pointers, it's easy.  Sure you should be proud.  But, as a coach and parent, I find I'm far more proud of the kid who gets his first hit 6 games into the season or the one who fights off five fouls balls and gets a dinker single.  It takes a tremendous amount of guts to get into the batter's box knowing you've had little or no success, but digging in anyway and giving it your all.  Sports are fun, but they can be scary too.  I'm proud of all of the kids, and whether or not they succeed, but I'm beaming with pride if my kids are out there diving for a ball, making a special play, or just digging hard down the line to beat out a grounder.

Reality

I would never squash a kid's dreams of playing anything professionally, and I'm fortunate enough to have had that chance however brief.  I remember asking my dad if I could play pro-ball (about 10-12 years old), and he said "of course, you can do anything."  Well, that's a nice line, but the reality is there are tons of guys like me.  We actually beat the odds and got drafted, played in the minors, and yet we aren't retired at 40.  What happened?  Reality happened...ohh, this is gonna hurt MLB Dad.


The reality is 1 in 11,437 little league baseball players will take the field as a Major League Baseball player. Take that in for a second.  A very large little league probably has 500 kids, so that's one kid out of more than 20 leagues making the big leagues.  The Bigs are probably out (MLB dad still actually thinks his kid is the one).  Hey MLB dad...that's .00009%

Well, shoot, the odds of making the Minor Leagues are far better right?  At least my little Johnny can have the "Bull Durham" experience...more like bullshit.  The odds of those same little-leaguers just making the Minors...the odds are 1 in 2,298 or .04%.

One more thing, if your kid doesn't have the physical gifts, and I'm talking about those you are born with, it doesn't matter how much batting practice you force him to take, he's gonna be in the stands next to you watching the A's (and that's not a bad thing), but he won't set foot on a major league field unless he is cutting the grass.  Most of the drafted players have ungodly arms, can run like jack-rabbits, have lightening fast hands, and/or all of the above.  I've seen some of the greatest infield plays of my life in A ball...far from the fresh cut grass in Yankee Stadium.  NO ONE GETS DRAFTED ON THEIR LITTLE LEAGUE PERFORMANCE.

So, let Johnny Rocket-arm play with his buddies, but if it's not working out, that's okay too.  I've been around the game a very long time as a player, umpire, coach, and now as a parent.  I love the passion my son shows for the game, and he's pretty darn good at it too.  However, I have no illusions that Incredikid is going to make his living swinging a bat or throwing a ball.  Nope, he's going to do it swinging a golf club.  Okay, probably not that either, but he might make some money taking a client out to the golf course or throwing a game with his boss for a promotion (never do that son).  Anyway, I have a goal to make sports fun for the Incredikids.  That might mean hours of throwing batting practice at the park, catching bullpens in the yard, or rolling grounders, but only if the Incredikids want to be there.  There are times when it's work for them...sure, that's how we learn anything, but I always ask myself who am I doing this for?  If the answer is me, then it's not something that needs to be done.  My father had it right...he would help me train anytime I asked (it was often long and painful for him), but he almost never made me do anything I didn't want to do, and certainly it was never for him.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't coach kids hard to learn to play hard, and honor the game and opponents they play.  If the kids have the passion, they put that pressure on themselves, they don't need us adding to it!  I remember one of my coaches from little league driving us down to Oakland to play the Fruit Loops and the other Kellogg sponsored teams.  We would pile in his yellow suburban, all 12 of us (yeah, no seat-belts baby), and roll down to play in Oakland.  Our parents were hardly ever there, and we played hard every day in the powdery all dirt fields of Alameda County.  Some of my best memories are playing on that team, and coming home to tell my folks how great we played.  Maybe sports were purer then, but we can make them that way again.  Cheer hard, be positive, and don't be that douche yelling "strike three" when you team gets a big strikeout.

Greatness is Not Acheived on Level Playing Fields

I'm embarrassed.  I'm embarrassed that I actually believed we had sunk to parenting lows with "everybody gets a trophy" leagues.  I was wrong...I admit it.  The latest concept is the "your kid is too good for the league" parent.  No, I'm not talking about Incredi-kid, but his joining the Little League Major division is where I finally saw this concept first hand.  PA-THE-TIC.

This year Incredi-kid was drafted into the Majors.  I was concerned he would struggle since he is 10, and most of the kids are 11 or 12.  I believed his skills had developed enough for him to meet the challenge of playing up.  So, I decided not to sign up for baseball as a coach, and then volunteer to help on whatever team (or level) that Incredikid landed.  Well, he was drafted to the defending champs who have 2 of the best returning players in the entire league.  I've been around baseball a long time, and these kids are really good.  One of them happens to be 5'10 or so, and more athletic and strong than just big.  We'll call him the "Beast."  The Beast mashes at the plate, and throws fire from the mound.  Now, Incredikid is 5'1, pretty tall for a 10 year old, but he's a beanpole and looks downright puny next to this monster.  I must admit, one of my prouder moments was watching him dig-in at the plate during a practice against the Beast early in the year.  He struck out, but stood in like a champ fouling a few off before he went down swinging.  12 year old versus 10 year old...this was the expected outcome, but overcoming that fear in week two of practices was really important for Incredikid.

The Beast isn't the biggest kid in the league eitiher.  There is a bigger kid who is 6'2 at 12 (the "Giant")...yup, he's my size and maybe a little bigger after seeing him on the mound last night (more below).  Anyway, there is a group of parents that believe these kids, who are just much bigger and more talented than theirs, are a "danger" to the other kids in the league and should be banned from pitching.  No, its not really because they fear their kids safety as no kid has suffered any real injury from one of these flamethrowers...it's because they are just too good.  These parents claimed it is based on size, but they aren't calling for that gumpy kid who couldn't throw a pitch through a wet paper bag's ban. No, they are okay with that lobber since little Johnny can hit against him even though he's six foot as well.  They want the studs removed to give little Johnny Strikeout a better chance at the plate.  They hide behind calling the kids "unsafe" and spread fantastic tales of knocking kids out with pitches (that never happened) to push their agenda.  The real agenda is to get give their kid a better chance to get a hit.

My recommendation to these "field-levelers" is to pull Johnny Strikeout out of the league today as his safety is being threatened.  No, not his physical safety.  The Beast is too good, and he's only hit one kid all year.  He, the Giant, and a few others have amazing control that goes with their great velocity.  No, you need to pull Johnny because you are RUINING HIM FOR LIFE.  Yes, all caps means I'm yelling.  There is no field-leveling in life.  If we all played on a level playing field, we'd all be mediocre, and that sucks for the world.  You are making your kid mentally weak.   I don't care whether it's swimming, basketball, or gymnastics, there is always that kid that's bigger, faster, stronger, and just better.  One must learn the skills to work harder, longer, and try a little harder than you are used to, and the fields, pools, and tracks are places we learn this valuable skills.  Greatness is not achieved on level playing fields.

Dick Hoyt is a hero of mine.  His son Rick can't walk or speak without a computer (Rick has cerebral palsy), but Team Hoyt has raced over 1091 times including the Iron Man Kona and 5 other Iron Man triathlons.  Team Hoyt is amazing, and the story is better than I can summarize in a paragarph.  Watch this video, and try to hold back the tears (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxqe77-Am3w), when you see Rick's face at 3:10 as they fly through the lava fields in Kona.  Team Hoyt doesn't need help, a hand up, or a special accommodation. They freaking rock the races, and together achieve greatness!  What they do is so awesome because they overcome so much.  A 65 year old guy shouldn't be able to tow his son 2.4 miles in a boat while swimming amongst thousands of competitors in open water.  How does that same father carry his son112 miles on the bike through the brutal winds and blazing heat of the Kona lava fields, and then push him all 26.2 miles of the a marathon in just over 13 hours?  It's not fair after all.  He's got it harder than the rest, and it's more difficult for them to win.  The look on Rick Hoyt's face as they come down the finish shoot with his right arm triumphantly raised...that is why it must be done.  Overcoming great odds is greatness defined.

Our kids cannot always be great.  Life just doesn't work that way, and being great all the time would make it boring.  Being great is being a 10 year old and facing the Beast, the Giant, or whatever nickname you have for the best player in the league.  This is not a new deal folks, there has always been some kid with whiskers at 12, and he is just better than everyone else.

Overcoming the fear...yes, its scary for the kids to face gas at the plate is bravery.  Glory often follows.  It maybe gloriously fouling off a few pitches before striking out, or  lacing a line drive into left field for a single as Incredikid did last night off the Giant (yup, I'm bragging).  The smile on Incredikid's face as he ran down the line was one I will never forget.  It was one of those defining moments where you see your child achieve in the face of adversity that doesn't happen on a level playing field.

This morning Incredikid had a little extra bounce in his step and shine to his smile.  Last night, if just for a moment, Incredikid tasted greatness.  That little taste...that feeling of absolute accomplishment, will serve as fuel him to taste it again in the classroom, on the field, and hopefully in life.