My Little League “Reliever”
I wrote about baseball, boys and parenting
Back in 2007 I wrote about a youth baseball game my middle son played in. Back then it wasn’t common practice to post stories online. This was before old people were allowed on Facebook, and before — as far as I remember —blogs were a big deal. So I typed up this story and emailed it to a handful of family and friends, mostly those with young boys who likely played baseball. I received a smattering of responses, including one co-worker who suggested I forward the tale to Reader’s Digest (which I did not), and my sister in another state asked me a few months later to re-send it so that she could share it with her son’s coach. That was the extent of its run.
But I’m going to dust this off and share it again, as my first foray into Medium. My son involved in this story is 17 now, and I assume he still wouldn’t be thrilled about this being shared. It’s been 11 years since this chilly spring night in Texas, and Kye is a high school junior. We don’t live in Texas anymore, but he still loves sports. He plays three sports for his high school, but stopped playing baseball around age 11.
Here’s my original piece from 2007:
My Little League “Reliever”
My 6-year-old son won’t appreciate me sharing this, but it’s too good not to share…
During the bottom of the first inning of my son’s little league pee wee coach-pitch game tonight, I notice Kye — the Dodgers’ second baseman — doing the dance that every parent recognizes immediately as the unmistakable “bladder-is-full” sign.
It was Good Friday, and an unseasonably frigid April evening in the heart of Texas with temperatures hovering near 50 degrees, and only nine Dodgers had shown up for the game. Making matters worse I knew that Kye was scheduled to lead off the top of the second inning and I wouldn’t be able to immediately get him to the restroom. But I wasn’t terribly worried because he’d been to the bathroom a mere half-hour before the game.
So the inning ends and I grab Kye before he jumps into the batter’s box and ask if he needs to go to the bathroom and with a strained look on his face he nods his head. I tell him that as soon as his at-bat/base running are over that we’ll head to the restroom.
Kye fouls off the first pitch and without fully following through on his swing immediately freezes at the top of the box facing the infield. He stands dead still for an uncomfortably long three or four seconds in which I’m painfully certain he has wet himself. At the same time his coach is trying to get his attention, Kye’s stare finally drifts down the third base line to me and I motion the petrified 6-year-old to get back in the box and hit.
He jumps back in and gamely takes a couple more hacks before striking out to be mercifully removed from the spotlight. I meet Kye outside the dugout and when I lift him up he has tears in his eyes and I ask if he has peed his pants (because I can’t see anything on his white pants, or feel anything for that matter) and he replies in the affirmative. My wife is waiting for us at the back of the dugout, and as any mother worth her salt she needs no explanation as to what has transpired.
I immediately get busy with my normal game duties in the dugout of monitoring the Dodgers lineup and preparing upcoming 6 and 7-year-old batters to hit. My duties change later that inning when Isaac, our left fielder and the only player on the team as small as Kye, is hit by a pitch on the finger and our coach has to head to his car in the parking lot to get some Band-Aids from his first aid kit. So coach has me take his place on the mound and I pitch the remainder of the inning.
When we take the field for the bottom of the second inning coach begins yelling that he’s missing a player. I check the dugout and see that Isaac, though his finger is fully bandaged, is still crying on the bench. Again, we have no substitutes this game, so Isaac’s father and I give him a pep talk and I holler back to coach that Isaac is heading to left field. Coach yells back something about second base and “where’s Kye?”
It dawns on me that I haven’t seen Kye or my wife return, so I quickly scan the crowd and then take off at a dead sprint to the restrooms 50 yards away. The women’s restroom door is shut so I yell my wife’s name and poke my head into the empty men’s room. After three or four calls the door to the women’s room opens and I see my wife and son and quickly ask what’s up? My exasperated wife explains that our son is “completely wet” and it appears she is trying to dry off his pants with hand towels. To her amazement, I quickly explain that we’re short a second baseman and that Kye is going back to play. We quickly buckle up his pants and sprint back to the field.
Kye spends the last five-and-a-half innings shivering badly but manages to continue playing — although he is a little off his game (evident when I manage to strike him out to end the fifth with runners on the corners).
The Red Sox erase our early lead and the game is tied through the scheduled six innings. We play an extra inning and Kye is part of a key putout in the bottom of the seventh to help maintain a 6–6 tie — the Dodgers’ first non-loss of the season. The cold but enthusiastic parents in attendance give the boys a standing ovation coming off the field and coach tells them it is the most exciting game he’s ever coached.
When I pick Kye up to carry him to the car I notice that he is shivering so badly that his teeth are actually chattering. But it wasn’t until we get back home and I am ripping off his cleats to throw him into the shower that I realize his socks are soaking wet. He had literally played the last hour or so of his game in wet socks, pants and underwear, in what was at tops, 50 degree weather.
Here’s to boys, parenting and baseball.
Postscript: We learned a few days after this game, at the next practice when he arrived wearing a small splint, that Isaac had suffered a fracture during the game — and had played the final innings with a broken finger. I haven’t seen Isaac since, I assume his finger healed completely, I’m not sure how his baseball career played out.
ADDITIONAL PIECES:
I wrote about a memorable Christmas of Hidden Gifts and a Police Report.
My essay from 2016 on How a False Accusation transformed My Life.
A tribute to my late father: Letter to Dad.
