Every year around mid-February, a strange ritual takes place in all parts of our country. It happens in factories, in offices on construction sites, in doctor’s offices, in offices of Lawrence’s Police and Fire Chief, Mayors, Selectmen, Town Clerk’s and possibly up the ladder to federal agencies.
Fathers and a few mothers are joining in with local Little League, Pee Wee League and Midget Leagues to set up meetings to discuss plans for the coming season. These leagues have a set of officers and usually a corporate structure that would turn Lee Iacocca green with envy. There is a president, vice-president, treasurer, secretary, farm league director, tag day director, director of umpires, concession booth director, and last but by no means least, a player agent. It seems humorous that major league players have only used player agents for about 15 years. These leagues have used them for at least 30 years.
The player agents’ job is to set up the draft for the league. Yep! That’s right, a draft for 10, 11 and 12 year old kids. Each manager in these leagues is given a number of points and they are used like cash to bid on a player or players. The holders of these points now become the local version of George Steinbrenner. They and their coaching staffs now put all the info they have on these mini Dwight Goodens, George Bretts and Wade Boggs’ and decide where and who to spend their booty on. It’s no easy task as there are many things you can scout on a lad or lass in these age categories.
I have not, however, been able to figure out the basis of their findings and sincerely question some of the people making these decisions. Maybe there are some signs you can readily pick out in a 10, 11 or 12 years old. Are they toilet-trained? I know that’s important. Do they know Reggie and Michael Jackson are not brothers? How many pieces of bubble gum can they get in their mouths? Do they know where to scratch themselves just when all eyes are on them? How about spitting? Did they pick up any tips from Whitey Herzog or Reggie on that art? I would relinquish half or maybe three quarters of my points for a kid that could spit and maybe do one other of the above. These player auctions have been known to end some very solid friendships.
The Tag Days are a must and it always makes one feel good to know your offspring will be dropped off at a local supermarket, mall or drug store to learn how to panhandle. Is there not one of us who forbade our kids to ask for money? Putting a uniform on these kids is the leagues way of O.K.ing this part of your offspring’s league committee. How about the candy sales, does any league not have at least one?
It’s now time to discuss the on-field activity. The tryouts! Has anyone ever registered or realized the pressure put on these aspiring kids? Imagine on a cold, dreary Saturday .in April when some guy who just knows he’s a Billy Martin type is about to grade these youngsters. Five, maybe ten ground balls are hit at some very nervous prospects. Why nervous? Well only because their peers are looking on. Maybe grandma and grandpa and aunt Tillie have come to this event. Maybe the chain-smoking father and mother on the sidelines catches his eye.
The same father who is a smooth talking company manager who screams “Rusty, get in front of the ball like I showed you” and kicks the dirt and shows disgust and dismay. The same guy who tells his top salesman “skip it, you had a bad day, don’t worry about it” is ready to explode because his kid booted one. The politician parent who has become an assistant coach is not worried, his love of the game and volunteering to umpire once a week has got his kid a certain route to a team. It’s now chance to prove you can hit.
Ted Williams said, “hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in any sport.” It’s the young one who has already shown he’ll need much work before winning a Golden Glove award. Both parents have had a chance to talk to him now and gramps who led some league in New Jersey in hitting in 1932 is giving batting tips.
When this year’s potential “natural” misses by a foot all three pitches, all the relatives yell in unison some batting tips. Unfortunately, each has a different one: “Keep your eye on the ball,” yells Dad. Gramp yells “swing like Gil Hodges”. The kid doesn’t know who Hodges was. Mama yells “hit it good and I’ll make your favorite dessert tonight”. Grandma yells “your shoe’s untied”. The hitter fouls one off and then dribbles a couple to 3rd before his last swing produces a pop up to shortstop. The child is on the verge of crying. He has been on display and has not impressed his peers, his family and most of all the “Sparky” Anderson types who ring the field with their charts and clipboards and this season’s new hat which is worn as proudly as General McArthur wore his famed chapeau.
There are good stories that emanate from this setting and there are successes galore, but one wonders what one morning in April does to our example. One final note, as our hopeful is being driven home Dad has some final comments to his wife as the young one listens from the backseat. “I can’t believe it. It’s your family genes at work. That new kid just moved into our neighborhood, no friends, no parents showed, that cheap $10 glove. He didn’t make one error and hit 3 homers. I can’t figure it, almost $100 for a glove. Those sweatbands, that gortex outfit, I can’t believe we didn’t make it. Well there’s always football.” As he looks in the rear view mirror, he whispers to his wife, “How long has he had that nervous tic? I’ve never noticed that before. We’ve got to correct it. I’ve never seen an N.F.L. quarterback do that”.
